


The Accidental Wizard

by AltheaG



Series: The Nigel Chaucer Chronicles [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, F/M, Harry Potter - Freeform, Hogwarts Era, Malfoy, Original Character(s), snape - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-21
Updated: 2012-03-26
Packaged: 2017-11-02 08:08:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 49,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AltheaG/pseuds/AltheaG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would you do if you woke up one morning, looked outside your window and could see Hogwarts? This is what happened to Nigel Chaucer. For the first fifteen years of his life, he grew up in St. Luke, a village in the North of England, and for fifteen years, the view from his window was an empty horizon and a warning sign in the distance. But now, home from a long hospital stay after a devastating accident, this new vision, this castle out of nowhere, will change the course of his life.</p>
<p>
  <img/></p>
<p>Image by Modthryth @ TDA</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Homecoming

It was past midnight when the silver BMW rolled into the drive. Only moon shone in the sky as a white owl soared overhead, hunting for its prey. Sound asleep in the back seat, snoring lightly, was Nigel Chaucer, sixteen and exhausted from the long journey from London all the way up north to St. Luke. He had curled up halfway through the trip, pulling up his knees as far as they would go in the cramped space and pulling his grey sweater securely around his thin shoulders. Soft piano music still emanated from the CD player as his father parked the car and turned off the headlights.

“Shh,” Mrs. Chaucer whispered to her husband, pointing to the slumbering Nigel.

“Let’s wake him and get him to bed,” Mr. Chaucer whispered back. They got out but didn’t close their car doors for fear of making too much noise.

With a gentle nudge on the shoulder of her son, Mrs. Chaucer eased Nigel awake. He stretched a little, grunting as he forced his tired eyes open.

“We here already?” he mumbled. The words felt thick in his mouth, as if it took every ounce of strength to speak.

“Come on, love,” she said softly, giving him a little tug at the elbow. “We’re home.”

Reluctantly and blearily, Nigel staggered out of the car and, led by his mother, trudged slowly into the cottage and up the stairs—a sharp twinge of pain stabbed his lower back, but Nigel was too tired to react. He didn’t bother to look at the familiar surroundings he got to his room, instead collapsing on his waiting bed. Mrs. Chaucer kissed him on the cheek, pulled the duvet over him, gave him a little pat on the bum and tiptoed out of the room, shutting the door soundlessly. Nigel snored softly and dreamed of flying broomsticks and shooting stars…

* * * * *

A flood of fresh morning sunlight poured through Nigel’s window, bringing with it summer warmth and new promises. Nigel stirred slowly, diffidently, coming to the unwelcome realization that he was done sleeping. There were no more dreams to be had, no more corners of night into which he could sink, and so, with some difficulty, he took a deep breath and sat up. A little pain wafted through his abdomen as he squirmed and stretched like a cat, but Nigel didn’t pay much attention. The pains had gradually lessened over the past few months since his accident and by now, they were relatively non-existent. 

Nigel rubbed his eyes and looked around, feeling at once comfortable in familiar surroundings but a distant stranger as well. His room looked about the same as he remembered from May, only his mother had cleaned it up a bit, hung up his shirts and trousers and put his shoes away in the cramped wardrobe. The posters of Metallica and the Grateful Dead still adorned his walls, as did the autographed photograph of his favourite footballer. He felt strange, though, as if the world had somehow moved on whilst he languished for so long in hospital. He wondered just a little where his life had gone all this time.

“Morning, Nige!” Mr. Chaucer said brightly, striding in the room with a tray filled with a huge breakfast of eggs, tomatoes, kippers, bangers and tea. Nigel fluffed up his own pillow in anticipation of a good meal for once—he was sick and tired of hospital food, yet that was all he’d had for the past four months.

“Smells great, Dad!” he said with enthusiasm. It was like being in heaven. And the food tasted better than it smelled. Nigel didn’t want this moment to end. He couldn’t help but feel a bit wistful in that moment, wondering just how much he had missed since he was away.

“Aunt Susan and Uncle Kit will be by today,” Mr. Chaucer said. “And the Barretts will stop in as well.”

“Jimmy, too?” Nigel hadn’t seen his best mate, Jimmy Barrett since he left for London, since the accident.

“Jimmy, Neville, Gavin, Clive and Jaymey, too. We’re planning a bang-up party for your return, Nige.”

“Not today?”

“Tomorrow evening. Mum’s getting the caterer in, and there’ll be all sorts of arrangements.”

“You don’t have to, Dad. I’m just glad to be home again, and in one piece.”

“I am, too, son.” Mr. Chaucer became a little misty eyed, but then he stood up and threw open the window to let in the morning air. “Well, I’ll leave you to finish your breakfast in peace. I’ve got a few things to do in town.”

“See you later, Dad.”

Nigel ate quickly, perhaps a little too quickly because pretty soon, he was getting a stomachache. He had grown used to broths and soft food and mush and jelly to eat. Sausages had been forbidden in hospital—it was a luxury for Nigel even to get eggs and toast. But he was home now, safely and thankfully home. Nigel breathed in the fresh air and went over to the window to look out over the town and the vast horizon, desiring to reacquaint himself with his familiar surroundings.

But what he saw that morning was far from familiar.

He had never noticed it before, and right outside his own bedroom window. A huge, massive castle, complete with a moat—or was it a lake?—and what looked like a forest to one side that seem to stretch on for miles and miles. Nigel blinked and blinked again, wondering if perhaps he was hallucinating or something. No—it was still there in all its gothic glory, shining like a beacon on a hill, complete with turrets and tall windows. It seemed to twinkle in the sunlight as if it were some enchanted palace from a children’s fable. There was no way such a construction could have been erected in a mere four months. No way.

“Maybe someone’s filming,” he said to himself. “Maybe it’s a façade or something, not a real castle.” But it certainly looked real, especially from where Nigel was standing.

* * * * *

“I see things have been busy around here since I’ve been gone,” Nigel said to his mother as he sat in the parlour later that morning. He was dressed casually, just in jeans and a blue shirt. He watched his mother as she put the final touches on the plate of cream cakes she had just laid out for the guests, due to arrive any minute.

“Well, we have been working hard,” she said, carefully arranging the napkins on the coffee table.

“No, I mean in town. The castle over there. It’s brilliant!”

Mrs. Chaucer smiled. “Castle? What castle?”

“You know, that massive one that was just put up outside of town.”

She crinkled her brow. “What one is that, dear?”

Nigel laughed. “Oh, I don’t know, just that huge structure just outside my bedroom window,” he said sarcastically. Surely she saw it?

Mrs. Chaucer moved to the front window and peered out. She shook her head. “I didn’t know they built anything. Where is it, you say?”

Before Nigel could respond, the front bell rang—voices rang out, and before he knew it, his aunt and uncle had swept into the room and gathered Nigel into their thick, tweedy arms.

“Oh my darling!” Aunt Susan sobbed. “It’s so good to have you back! We thought you were done for, didn’t we Kit? But oh! Your mother and father were so worried! And to see you now is so wonderful!” She held him tightly. A little too tightly, Nigel thought.

Once he had extricated himself from her firm grip, he shook hands with his uncle Kit.

“Good to see you, old boy, good to see you,” Kit said. He desultorily patted Nigel on the arm and poured himself a bourbon.

“Well it’s good to be home again,” Nigel said, sitting back on the settee.

“When did you arrive?” asked Susan, taking two cream cakes. She took a huge, messy bite out of one. The cream dribbled down her pointy chin just a little. She managed to catch it before it fell onto her bright, floral blouse.

“Late last night, after midnight. I didn’t even brush my teeth. I just went straight to bed.”

“Long journey?” she asked, her mouth stuffed with cream cake. She took another bite. A bit of cream stuck to the tip of her beaky nose.

“Hours and hours. I fell asleep just past Coventry and I didn’t wake up until we were here.”

“Must be nice to be out of hospital, though,” Susan said, wiping her mouth and gulping down some sherry. “We were so worried about you, darling, especially those first few days.”

Nigel preferred not to think about those horrible days. He had traveled to London at the start of May to visit his cousin Tony for a weekend—they were set to attend a football match and go to a nightclub later that evening. But Nigel never got to do either. He was struck by a lorry and knocked down in the street, left alone to die. A horrified and traumatised Tony managed to call the three nines just in time, but Nigel’s injuries were extremely severe. No one knew whether he would survive the frantic ambulance drive to the nearest hospital.

Over the next week Nigel had endured several surgeries, blood transfusions, emergency procedures and excruciating pain and suffering. At first it was all touch-and-go, as Nigel’s life hung in the balance. Some days he struggled even to breathe, and the pain from his injuries and from the surgeries threatened to drive him out of his mind. Still, Nigel hung on, clinging to life desperately, unwilling to let himself succumb to what had been done to him. Gradually, his condition stabilised, and by the end of the second week in hospital, it was clear that Nigel would survive the trauma.

But he had broken bones, massive internal injuries and a cracked skull. He would be in recovery for a very long time. While he fortunately had no brain damage other than a severe concussion, he did have to relearn a few things—several weeks in traction had weakened his muscles, and Nigel had to learn to walk and even to feed himself. That process was slow and extremely painful, but after several more weeks, he had become strong enough and facile enough that he finally was allowed to return home to St. Luke. Jimmy had visited a couple of times during the summer holiday, but London was far away and most of his friends, including Jimmy, couldn’t always make it down to see him. Nigel had made a few friends whilst in recovery, but he ached to be back with his old mates again.

Aunt Susan smiled at him. “Well, things are just about the same around here,” she said.

“Except for the castle, I suppose,” Nigel said lightly. Surely they must have driven right past it.

“What castle? Is there a castle? Kit! Is there a castle around here?”

“No, no castle. No castle for miles and miles,” Kit said. He poured his third glass of bourbon. His nose had turned bright red.

“But the one just out there!” Nigel insisted. “Just there! Outside of town!”

“What castle is that?” Susan asked. She bit into her fourth cream cake.

“I didn’t see it either,” Mrs. Chaucer said.

“Are you all daft?” Nigel asked insistently. “It’s right there!” He pointed out the window at the gargantuan edifice crowning the horizon. “Don’t tell me you don’t see it!”

Susan and Mrs. Chaucer looked at each other worriedly.

“Well, anyway,” Susan said, “I’m just so glad to have my favourite nephew back and in good physical health!” 

Nigel sat there with his uneaten cream cake, gobsmacked. How could they not see it? What was going on?

The Barretts came a few minutes later, with Jimmy bursting in the front door, bellowing, “Nigel? Get your arse out here old man!”

Jimmy, with his freckled face and his jet black hair, bounded into the room, taking his taller, paler friend into a huge embrace.

“Oh my gosh, man, it’s so good to have you back!” Jimmy crowed.

“You look great!” Nigel said. “How’s Lucy?”

“Great, great, if you know what I mean.” He winked at Nigel.

“Have a cream cake, Jimmy,” Mrs. Chaucer said, thrusting a plate into his hands.

“Thank you, Mrs. Chaucer,” Jimmy said politely, plopping a fat cream cake onto the plate. “So come on, Nige, tell us about all the cute nurses at your rehab place.”

Nigel made a face. “They were all fifty years old! The only remotely cute person was a thirty year-old male orderly, so I was out of luck with that! Plus he absolutely reeked of stale cigarette smoke!”

The boys laughed luxuriously.

“Tell me, Jimmy,” Susan asked, “do you see a castle out there?” She pointed out the window.

He made a face. “Uh, I do if you do, ma’am.”

“I don’t. Nigel says there’s a castle there.”

Jimmy grinned and shrugged. “Well, if Nigel wants to see a castle, who’s to deprive him? After all, four months in hospital has earned him the right to see whatever the heck he wants!”

Everyone laughed, even Nigel. But later that night, as he stared out his bedroom window at the twinkling lights that peppered the ebony outline of the castle, Nigel wondered. He had been terribly, horribly injured. He had lost blood, been through countless surgeries, been on more drugs than a rock star in his prime, and yet, he was certain that what he saw out there was real. It had to be.


	2. A Long Summer Walk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Determined to find the truth about this castle, Nigel decides to do a little exploring...

More parties. Even more visitors. Aunts and uncles. Cousins. Even strangers from town and from Nigel’s school. One of his teachers came by, as did the headmaster, wishing Nigel welcome home and we’ll see you at school. A reporter from the _St. Luke Sentinel_ came by as well to get a photograph and take a quick interview of Nigel.

“How does it feel to be back, son?” he asked.

“It feels great,” Nigel replied. “I’m finally back with my family and friends.”

“So how are you feeling?”

“I’m not a hundred percent yet,” Nigel admitted. “I’ve still got pain, but I’m doing alright. I can’t walk long distances yet, but I’m improving.”

“Did they ever find the driver who did this to you?”

Nigel paused, stung a little by the question. This was something he definitely didn’t like talking about. He had gone through such a rush of emotions—anger, frustration, grief—and the last thing he wanted to think about was the fact that the driver had never been caught and never been seen again.

That week, so many visitors came to the Chaucer household that Nigel barely had a spare moment to take it all in. Jimmy and Clive came every day, early in the morning to shake him out of bed. They fed him breakfast, played games with him, took him on short walks around the block, told him about how the girls in town had changed and matured over the summer, who was still a virgin and who was not, and reacquainted him with the statistics on all his favourite football teams. Nigel appreciated the attention, loved his mates all the more for their support, and at length, longed to be back in school.

This was to be a seminal year for Nigel. He had missed taking his GSCE’s due to his accident, and had already felt the strain of now being way behind everyone else. He was still unsure how the school year would fare for him, and he hoped that some accommodations would be made for him. In fact, the headmaster assured him that he would be able to take most of his classes with his friends, but that he would also need to take time to review for his exams. School would be busy this year, but Nigel felt eager to tackle it all. He wanted to catch up, to be the same as he once was, to fit back into his old life again, as if nothing had changed at all.

In the meantime, he still had two weeks to readjust himself to life in St. Luke. For the most part, the town looked much the same, with the same old tweedy, mustachioed men loitering outside the grocer’s at the end of Mayfield Parkway, and the same ladies populating Gisella’s Tea Shoppe at the corner of Marchwood Lane and Devon Road. His first week back Nigel walked slowly, assisted by a cane which made him feel like an old codger. Everyone stopped him in the street to give him a hug and welcome him home. The accident had been a top story in the _St. Luke Sentinel_ , and the entire citizenry of the village had sent their cards and their prayers to Nigel over the last several months.

But that castle…He longed to see it, find out if it was real. It baffled Nigel that no one could see it—not his parents, his friends, the vicar, nor anyone else. Could it be some residual effect of the accident, of the massive blood loss or the gallons of drugs pumped through his body? He searched the internet for answers, but got nothing.

His second week back, Nigel managed to free himself from the obligations of family and friends, and for once, he had a free afternoon to himself. Dying of rampaging curiosity, Nigel decided to walk toward the castle, to discover for himself what it was and what mysteries it held. It called out to him, flirted with him, or so it felt, compelling Nigel to explore its mysteries. He wanted to touch its walls, feel the stone under his fingers, prove to himself that he wasn’t barkers.

When he mentioned the castle to Jimmy and Clive, they laughed.

“That was some head injury you had, wasn’t it, mate?” Jimmy said dismissively.

Clive weighed in, not one to stay out of a running joke. “Say, do you see faeries, too?”

“You guys are taking the piss out of me, aren’t you? How can you not see it? It’s HUGE! Look at it!!!” Nigel felt like he was either a little crazy or the butt of a very unfunny joke at his expense.

Clive and Jimmy could only stare blankly at the empty horizon and shake their heads derisively.

“You’ll be alright soon, mate,” Clive replied smirking. “Hey, maybe they laced your jelly with shrooms!”

But today Nigel was alone, entirely on his own, and ripe for adventure. It had to be real, this strange and haunting place. As he drew nearer to the looming stronghold, Nigel paused, overwhelmed by the size and magnitude of the place. So far, everything seemed real—the air smelled sweet as the summer breeze tickled his cheek. No delusions yet.

The castle had many turrets, grand, long windows, stone walls, green lawns within its gates. Nigel drew closer, past shady trees and quiet shadows, fascinated, desperate with curiosity as to what lay within its thick walls. But as he approached the ominous gates, it didn’t open itself to him. Locked and forbidden. He placed his hands on the cold ironwork and shook it a little, but it was no good—it was as rigid as a boulder. Undaunted, Nigel glanced about to see where he might climb over the gate or the thick walls, but even in that, he could find no way in. All Nigel could do was peer in between the bars and take in the scenery.

The green, lush lawns sprawled long and lush like an enchanted carpet, reaching all the way toward the front steps of the castle itself. To one side, he could see what looked like a large thatched hut with a pumpkin patch along one side. He could faintly hear a dog barking, though that could have come from anywhere. Nigel secretly wished he might see some strange creature, a unicorn or a Pegasus or something. Trees, fountains, hills and a sparkling lake lay beyond the walls of the massive castle, but no people anywhere. He wondered what the place was and who lived there. Was it someone’s home or a weird office building or something else?

Looking up to the long windows, Nigel could have sworn he saw a man in a white beard looking out—but that must have been his imagination running riot. After all, the man looked like Merlin or Gandalf, and that, Nigel knew, was pure fantasy. The man wore grey robes and seemed rather pensive standing there, as if he were searching for something. Nigel moved to wave to him, but he stopped himself, fearing that the man might actually see him. Nigel wasn’t so sure he was so ready for an encounter.

The reality of the castle was becoming abundantly clear to Nigel. True, the accident had caused him a more than slight concussion, but not any massive head injuries—and true, he had been unconscious for four days, but some of that was drug induced so that he didn’t move about and rip out all the stitches the doctors had carefully put in.

There had to be a way in. He was certain.

Nigel began to walk along the perimeter of the walls, looking for any chink through which he might gain access. Nothing so far. The leaves on the trees smelled sweet, like the summer sun, and he amused himself by jogging in little circles around the trunks, creating a maze for himself.

But after an hour of fruitless searching, Nigel was forced to give up. The time was getting late, and he had to get back home to see his grandparents, who were arriving from York any minute. Nigel strode as fast as he could on his cane, now regretting the jog he had taken earlier. His body was still in deplorable shape since his return, and he knew he wasn’t supposed to strain himself just yet. As he retraced his steps, Nigel noted the long pathway that led in a new direction. Tempted to follow it, he had to deny himself, for the moment anyway.

When he finally made it home, Nigel felt completely exhausted, but before he could sit down and take a little rest from his long day, Grandfather Chaucer and his current wife, Margaret, had already ambushed him with hugs and kisses and pats on the head. He held Nigel at arm’s length and inspected him with a broad smile.

“I think you grew whilst you were away, boy,” he said proudly.

“An inch and a half, actually,” Nigel replied. “Of course, being in traction for over a month may have contributed.”

Margaret thrust a present into Nigel’s hands, a heavy box wrapped in sparkling green paper, tied up with a silver bow.

“It’s something for your recovery, now you’re home,” she said eagerly.

“Go on, boy, open it,” Grandfather Chaucer urged.

Nigel lugged the box over to the settee and tore open the wrapping. Inside was an intricately carved wooden box, lined in rich green velvet and embossed with what looked like a tangle of serpents and clawed trees. The figure of a young lady in what appeared to be a toga or a Roman tunic lounged languidly under the tree, apparently entertaining one of the serpents with a partly eaten apple. Nigel raised a curious eyebrow and considered the Freudian implications of such a scene.

“Well, what do you think?” Grandfather Chacuer asked.

“It’s beautiful. Really different.”

“I found it in the garret of our house just a week ago,” Margaret explained. “I was searching for an old portrait of your great-great-great-grandmother Lydia Prince that I wanted to take to that antiques show on telly, and I unearthed this box. It has to be at least a hundred years old, maybe even older!” She looked positively beside herself with excitement.

“We thought that as you made your recovery, these connections to our family history would bring you comfort and happiness,” Grandfather Chaucer said.

“Thank you both for this,” Nigel said. “I’ll put it in a place of honour in my room.”

At dinner that night, Nigel talked about many things—the upcoming school year, reunions with all his friends, that trip to Iona he still wanted to take, his hopes for his favourite football team this year, his desire to play cricket again once school started up again.

“You were out a long time today, Nige,” Mrs. Chaucer said. “What did you do?”

“I had quite a day,” Nigel said. “Remember that castle I told you about?”

Mr. Chaucer smirked. “The one only you can see?”

Nigel’s grandparents looked a little apprehensive.

“What’s all this rubbish, then?” Grandfather Chacuer asked.

Nigel shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe none of you can see it!” He was starting to take all this a little personally. “I went there today, to make sure it was real! I’ve really been doubting myself all week long since no one else seems to be able to see it.

“No one else can see it, dear,” Mrs. Chaucer replied tartly.

“But Mum, it’s real, I swear! You should see it, it’s…”

“Nigel, that’s enough!” Mrs. Chaucer snapped. “Once and for all, there is NO castle anywhere near here!”

“I saw it, Mum! I went there! I touched its gates, saw its grounds! I even saw someone inside, looking down at me! A old man with a white beard!”

“And who was this?” Mr. Chaucer asked. “Merlin?”

Nigel wondered at his father’s words. No, too much of a coincidence. Plus, Nigel remembered his own disbelief at the sight of the white-bearded man in the tower window.

“Darling, we don’t mean to humiliate you,” Mrs. Chaucer responded, aware of her son’s distress. “But you know very well there is no castle here. I think you expect to see one, and so you did see one. But it’s all a fantasy, dear, not real.”

“Now Lucinda,” Margaret lectured, “let’s not argue about this. The poor dear needs time to recover. Nigel, your vision will go back to normal soon, and all this business of castles and Merlin will go away.” She smiled sweetly and tickled him under the chin.

“He always did have an active imagination,” Grandfather Chaucer noted with a chuckle.

Mr. Chaucer laughed. “When Nigel was five, he tried to convince us he’d seen a unicorn in the back garden!”

Nigel remembered that moment well—he was so sure of himself back then. Alright, so he had just spent the last month reading all sorts of fairy tales and drawing pictures of knights and dragons, but back then, just as now, Nigel was sure of what he had seen. The unicorn—he was sure that’s what it was—wasn’t too big, but it had a silvery coat and an almost entrancing elegance about it as it quietly nibbled on his mother’s roses. He had rushed into the house, screaming at the top of his lungs that there was a unicorn in the back garden, but by the time he managed to drag his parents out there to see for themselves, the unicorn had gone.

Humiliated once again, Nigel thought about arguing with them all about the castle, but in the end, decided to let the whole matter drop. But as he lay in bed that night, remembering what he had seen and experienced that day, Nigel renewed his faith in what had happened. It simply couldn’t be all in his head. It just couldn’t. Nigel decided to follow that path he had discovered outside the castle, and see to what new regions it might lead him.


	3. What's A Sickle?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First Hogsmeade, then Minerva McGonagall...Nigel is fully convinced that this magical world is real. Now if only he could convince his family.

The path was well-worn, cobblestone, littered with leaves as Nigel trudged past. His legs were sore and tired from yesterday, and he walked more slowly today, not wanting to risk his health just to satisfy his curiosity. The path went straight for a little while, but then it took a gentle bend and continued on, past trees and hedges and green shrubs. Nigel looked ahead, wondering what new wonders he would find—he hoped for something spectacular. And that’s when he saw a town.

He never knew there was a town around here. As far as anyone in St. Luke knew, there was no other town in the general area. St. Luke was a small town surrounded by farmland and rolling hills, and until recently, an abandoned stretch of property marked off by a fence forbidding entry due to extreme danger beyond. And yet seemingly overnight, a castle had sprung up, and at its feet, a quaint little town that looked like something out of a children’s storybook. The buildings were all slightly askance, mostly thatched or with wooden roofs, scattered in every which way with no real pattern or logic, as if the town were thrown together in a hurry, with no attention to city planning whatsoever. Nigel found it charming. 

But who lived there and how long had this place existed??

The streets of the town were lined with new and interesting shops, including a public house called The Three Broomsticks, a sweetshop called Honeyduke’s, what looked like a toy store called Zonko’s, and a curious clothing shop called Gladrags Wizardwear. He wondered why they would be selling wizardwear and what exactly wizardwear was. This could get interesting. Glancing into the post office as he passed, he could see what was clearly scores and scores of—owls? It was all too unreal to take in, and Nigel began to wonder if his family and friends were right about a possible head injury. Maybe Clive had a point about shrooms.

More interesting than the shops were the people Nigel saw. It was as if they were all in fancy dress, all in robes of wildly different colours, many wearing pointy hats like witches or sorcerers. He half expected to see the white-bearded man from the castle, but he didn’t. No unicorns either. Everyone seemed to act so naturally, as if dressing in this way was completely normal. In fact, in his jeans and white shirt with a little stain on the collar, Nigel began to feel a bit out of place among this funny-robed crowd. It would have been one thing if they had been kids, but these were adults, some of whom were older than his parents. Nigel’s curiosity overwhelmed his uneasiness, and he headed straight to Honeydukes.

The door jingled merrily as Nigel entered, goggling incredulously at what he saw. It was a sugar fantasy world, a sweet cotton candy private universe. Nigel barely knew where to begin. There was every sort of sweets imaginable, but nothing that looked remotely familiar to him. He saw things labeled Sugar Quills, Fizzing Whizbees, Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum and Pepper Imps. He saw Chocoballs, Bertie Botts’ Every Flavour Beans and Chocolate Frogs and Ice Mice as well. Nigel salivated at the sight and he began to choose what he wanted to buy. The one thing that looked somewhat familiar were the Chocolate Frogs, though the packaging was quite different—it was in a little box rather than in a plastic packet, and it looked like it had a prize inside, too. Either way, Nigel picked up four of them and went to the counter to buy them, along with the Ice Mice, some Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum, a Sugar Quill and a small bag of Peppermint Humbugs.

“That’ll be eight sickles, six knuts,” the lady at the counter said. Like everyone else he saw, she, too, wore robes. Hers were pale pink with yellow embroidery on the sleeves.

Nigel puzzled. Was this a joke? Had he happened on some sort of tourist attraction where he had to buy special currency or play money?

“Uh, sorry miss, did you say sickles?”

“Eight sickles, six knuts.”

Nigel felt his pockets, not sure what to do. “Uh, do you accept British pounds?”

The lady scowled and sighed irritatedly. “Oh, alright, that’s, um, well approximately, uh, £2.35.”

Nigel pulled out some coins from his pocket. “Do you have change? I’ve £3 here. No pence.”

The lady scowled and thrust a few strange looking coins into his hands—two silver coins and seven little bronze ones.

“Thank you,” Nigel said, pocketing his change. “Sorry about the exchange. I didn’t know you had special money here.”

He left the shop and stuck a sugar quill in his mouth. It tasted different. Sweet, but different. Good. Really good in fact. But all the sugar made him thirsty, so he headed to the Three Broomsticks for a coke.

Inside, it looked like any other public house—quirky, thrown together, a little slapdash but fun. The assortment of robed people inside were more fascinating than the ones he saw on the street. One fellow was probably the largest person Nigel had ever seen in his life. The bloke had to be ten feet tall, at least, and had the biggest, scruffiest beard that Nigel was sure hosted small wildlife in its depths. Another man sat in the corner, alone, looking sullenly about—he wore jet black robes and had long black hair and big, hooked nose. Nigel thought he looked very dodgy, maybe even evil.

Nigel sat near the window, far away from the strange man in black, and waited for the hostess, a very pretty, curvy woman who called herself Rosmerta. She took out a pad and…and a quill? and asked Nigel what a handsome young man was doing in a place like this.

Nigel chuckled. “Just resting my legs,” he said, indicating his cane. “Long walk today.”

“What’ll it be, love?”

“Just a coke.”

She gave him a funny look. “I’m sorry, love, we don’t have that. How about a nice cold bottle of butterbeer? All the kids love butterbeer.”

Butterbeer? That didn’t sound too palatable, but Nigel was up for new adventures. “Yeah, OK.”

In a couple of minutes, Rosmerta returned with a chilled bottle of butterbeeer and a little purple bowl of cashews.

“Do you accept British pounds?” Nigel asked before he opened the butterbeer bottle. He showed her the change from his pocket.

Rosmerta gave him a similar look that the Honeydukes lady gave him, but then she zeroed in on something familiar. She picked out the two strange coins he had gotten back from Honeyduke’s. “There you are, love, you’ve got it. Two sickles for the bottle.”

The butterbeer tasted really strange to Nigel. It was heavy, almost like a stout, but sticky and sweet, too. He expected a strong beer taste to it, but instead, was greeted by something more like cider, thick but not milky. It was a difficult taste to get used to, but Nigel finished the contents of the bottle fairly rapidly. He decided not to order a second one. Plus, he was out of those sickle coins and he didn’t want anyone else getting mad at him. The man in black eyed him curiously. Maybe it was time to leave.

Back outside, Nigel wandered a little more, finally ending up in a stationer’s called Scrivenshaft’s. The bell tinkled lightly as he pushed open the door and went inside. Nigel had never seen a stationer’s quite like this. He expected walls of packaged pens of all shapes and colours and sizes, but instead, there was nothing but quills—goose quills, eagle quills, even peacock quills. And the paper came all in rolls. No notebooks, no pads or single sheets. And it all felt expensive, like parchment or vellum, the sort of paper you might use in an art class or to make a special certificate or something. But that was all there was. And then, bottles and bottles of all sorts of inks, and not just black and blue. There was ink that claimed to change colour as you wrote, and there was ink that claimed to correct your spelling. 

Nigel picked out a peacock quill and the colour changing ink—but again, the same problem with money. He had used his sickles to get his drink, so he was again stuck only with British pounds. The proprietor was a little more understanding than the others had been, to Nigel’s great relief. He was excited to show this crazy quill to Jimmy and Clive, though he worried a bit about how his mother would react. Would she finally believe him if she saw evidence? He hoped.

The day was getting late, and it was time for Nigel to get back home, laden with his purchases. This would show them, he thought as he made his way back up the street, out of town, past the train station and back toward the castle, though more slowly this time. His aching body was getting tired quickly, and even before he reached the now familiar gates of the castle, Nigel had to stop in his tracks and take a breath. His legs ached from the strain, and his back felt like it was on fire. Locating a large rock on the side of the road, Nigel set down his packages and sat, stretching out his legs and gingerly rubbing his knees. He let his cane fall to the ground, cluttering as it went. Nigel sighed as the pain eased up a bit.

A small figure of a person came up the path in the far distance. Nigel noticed that it was one of those people in robes, wearing a dark pointy hat like a witch. He didn’t feel quite right sitting there, not knowing whether this person was friendly or not, but then again, he was in too much pain at the moment to move. So Nigel sat, nervously hoping the person would ignore him and continue past without a word. As the figure grew nearer, he could see that it was a woman, medium height, somewhat elderly but sprightly all the same. She had a tartan band around her pointy hat, and now he could see that her robes were a deep emerald green. Actually, Nigel thought, they were quite beautiful. Odd but beautiful. There was no way he could make himself inconspicuous, so Nigel sat tight as she neared even closer.

She saw him. Drat. For a moment it seemed that she would ignore him and move on toward her destination, but as the woman neared closer still, her face became concerned, worried at the sight of him. She eyed the cane and the dropped packages.

“Hello,” she said. She spoke with a liltng Scottish accent.

“Hi.”

“Are you alright?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine, ma’am. Just tired. Long day shopping.”

She looked at him carefully, skeptically. “Are you from around here?”

“Yeah, just over at St. Luke. Next town over.”

“Yes yes, I know that town, though I don’t get there often. Nice town. Are you in school there?”

“Yeah. I was supposed to take my GCSE’s in June, but I was in a bad accident, so now I’m a bit behind.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I see you use a cane.”

“It’s just temporary, ma’am.” Unable to keep his curiosity in check, Nigel decided to ask her. “Say, what do you know about this castle? How long has it been here?”

She raised her eyebrows in alarm. “Hogwarts? Why it’s been here a thousand years!”

“A thousand years?” Nigel cried out, incredulous. “But I thought it was new! I only just noticed it last week! I thought maybe it was a film set or something!”

The woman frowned, suddenly looking deeply troubled. “Of course it’s not new! What do you mean you only just noticed it, my dear?”

“Well my bedroom window overlooks this area, and until last week, when I returned home from London, all I ever saw was a blank horizon and vacant hills.”

“What’s your name?”

“Nigel. Nigel Chaucer.” He put out his hand.

“My name is Professor Minerva McGonagall,” she said, shaking his hand. “Tell me, Nigel, are you quite sure you never noticed Hogwarts before?”

“No, I didn’t. What is this place anyway? Who lives here? Do you live here?”

“Yes, I do. Hogwarts is a school, a very ancient school of witchcraft and wizardry.”

“Witchcraft?” Nigel exclaimed. “You’re not serious, are you?” That couldn’t be! A school of witchcraft? Near St. Luke? Impossible!

“I am quite serious,” she replied stiffly, slightly offended by his outburst.

“So what do you teach, then?” Nigel asked. Maybe he wasn’t the one who was crazy after all.

Minerva McGonagall balked at responding, however. “Tell me something, Nigel, do you think you could come by here again tomorrow? To Hogwarts, I mean? I could show you the grounds and the castle and we could talk a little more.”

“I’d love to see the castle! My family and friends think I’m barkers because I see the castle and they claim they don’t! But how can you miss it? It’s HUGE! I didn’t see it my first night back because I was asleep and all I did was just collapse into my bed. But the next morning! But how can it be ancient? I know it wasn’t here four months ago.”

Minerva McGonagall gave him a sympathetic pat on the hand. “If you come tomorrow, dear, I think we can begin to figure it out.”


	4. The Man in Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He stood at the gates now, eagerly waiting Minerva McGonagall’s approach. The air that morning was still, impatient, restless, ripe. He watched a bunny rabbit hop blithely past on the grounds of Hogwarts, disappearing eventually into a thatch of shrubs. And then, there she was, walking determinedly down the path toward the gates, the same focused, intense look on her lined but strong face. This morning, she was not alone. A tall man in billowing black robes walked next to her, buttoned up to the top of the stiff collar, all formality and severity. His jet black hair flashed an intense blue sheen as the sunlight graced the top of his head. Nigel immediately recognised him as the man he had seen in Hogsmeade, in that public house._

Back home, Nigel bounded into the parlour with a renewed sense of energy. He opened all the packages he had bought that afternoon and called for his mother. 

“I’m back, Mum!” Nigel called. “You won’t believe where I went today! You’ve got to check this out!”

She poked her head into the parlour, a soapy pot in her gloved hands.

“I’ll be with you in a moment, honey,” she said. “I’m just finishing the dishes.” After a few clanks and a rush of water from the kitchen, she reentered the parlour, drying her hands with a white tea towel. Surveying his array of strange looking items, she furrowed her brow. “What are all of these?”

“I bought them today in Hogsmeade,” Nigel said proudly.

“Hogsmeade?”

“Yeah, Hogsmeade. It’s just one town over.”

Mrs. Chaucer scowled. “The next town over is Deerfield.”

Nigel sensed trouble, but he persisted. “No, in the other direction.”

“Nigel, there is no town in the other direction. It’s just vacant property.”

“Then where do you think I got all this?” he asked, somewhat defiantly.

“I have no idea, Nigel. You tell me where you got it.”

“I told you. Hogsmeade. It’s just past the castle, which I learned is called Hogwarts. It’s a school. I met a lady who lives there. She says it’s been there a thousand years!”

A pained, impatient look flitted across Mrs. Chaucer’s face. “Nigel, you simply must stop it with this castle! You know very well it’s not real!”

“It IS, Mum!”

“Don’t shout!”

“I’m sorry. But Mum…”

“Enough!”

“But look at these,” Nigel pleaded, indicating his purchases. “How can you possibly say I’m deluded?”

Mrs. Chaucer shook her head in complete exasperation. “Be serious, Nigel.”

“I am!”

“You could have bought those things anywhere.”

“Come on! Sugar Quills? Ice Mice? Have you ever heard of these?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean you couldn’t buy these here in town.” She suddenly glared at him. “I think you need to go to your room for a while. Have a lie-down, dear. You probably walked too far today.”

“Mum…” Nigel said desperately. The lights flickered for a moment.

“Go on to your room before I lose my patience,” she said sternly.

With a flash of anger and frustration, Nigel gathered up his things and trudged upstairs. It was unbelievable to him that she still thought he was just some crazy git with a bad head injury. They had to believe him, but at this point, Nigel had no idea how to convince them. In fact, the thought dogged him the rest of the evening, through dinner and even whist the family watched the telly that night. He decided to say nothing to his father—he’d had enough skepticism from his mother for one day. So he looked forward to his meeting tomorrow, with Minerva McGonagall. Nigel had to believe that somehow, she would help him make sense of all this.

* * * * *

The next morning, Nigel awoke with a stomachache—too much stress and too little sleep had taken their toll on his body that morning, though Nigel would not be dissuaded from returning to Hogwarts, regardless of what his parents might think. At breakfast, Nigel ate his tea and toast without enjoyment, feeling his mother’s cautious eyes on him at all times.

“What are you doing today, Nigel?” she asked.

What could he say? He feared the truth but he didn’t want to lie to his mother, either. “Just going for a walk today,” he replied. “I think these walks are helping me get my strength back.”

She smiled and mussed his hair. “Look, Nigel, about yesterday.”

Nigel scowled.

“I just want you to be alright again,” she said. She kissed the top of his head.

“I know, Mum,” Nigel grumbled. He stood up and gave her a little hug. “Hey, I’ll be back in a while, yeah? This afternoon.”

“Be careful.”

The walk to Hogwarts seemed longer today than before, though Nigel wasn’t so sure why. Maybe it was his own sense of doubt creeping in that held him back on the path, or maybe it was the opposite, that untold wonders lay in store for him somehow. Nigel’s imagination ran riot as he walked, barely allowing himself to enjoy the bright sunny morning. And then, as if in a dream, there it was again. The castle hadn’t gone away in the night but instead, beckoned him forward.

He stood at the gates now, eagerly waiting Minerva McGonagall’s approach. The air that morning was still, impatient, restless, ripe. He watched a bunny rabbit hop blithely past on the grounds of Hogwarts, disappearing eventually into a thatch of shrubs. And then, there she was, walking determinedly down the path toward the gates, the same focused, intense look on her lined but strong face. This morning, she was not alone. A tall man in billowing black robes walked next to her, buttoned up to the top of the stiff collar, all formality and severity. His jet black hair flashed an intense blue sheen as the sunlight graced the top of his head. Nigel immediately recognised him as the man he had seen in Hogsmeade, in that public house.

Minerva McGonagall stood aside while the man in black unlocked the gates with a flick of what looked very much like a magic wand. Nigel puzzled at the sight, but walked through the gates anyway. He shuddered a bit, but steeled himself, dying with curiosity about what lay within the walls of the castle.

“Welcome to Hogwarts, Nigel. This is Professor Severus Snape,” Minerva McGonagall said as Nigel passed through the gates. This was it. His stomach did backflips as he set foot on the grounds of Hogwarts for the very first time.

“Nice to meet you,” Nigel said, shaking hands with the stern man in black.

Snape looked back at him with cold curiosity. His grip was strong and proud.

The grounds inside were more fascinating that Nigel imagined. The hut he had seen before was only the beginning. They took him across the grounds, pointing out strange things like The Forbidden Forest and The Whomping Willow. Everything was green and lush and…big. The lawns seemed to ramble on forever, and that forest looked as if it might go on forever, too.

“I’d stay clear of the Whomping Willow if I were you, Mr. Chaucer,” Professor Snape said wryly. “Unless, that is, you prefer an early demise.”

“No thanks, sir,” Nigel replied coolly. “I’ve had enough brushes with death these days.”

Just ahead was what Nigel knew to be a stadium, but on the other hand, unlike any stadium he’d ever seen. High overhead were turrets in colours of blue, red, green and purple. And at each end of the stadium were three hoops of varying heights, unlike basketball hoops, but what were clearly the part of some sport unknown to Nigel.

“That’s the Quidditch pitch,” McGonagall said as they passed by, heading into the castle itself.

“What’s Quidditch?” Nigel asked.

Both McGonagall and Snape stopped in their tracks. “You don’t know Quidditch?” McGonagall asked, startled.

“Never heard of it.”

“Astonishing,” Snape muttered with mild disdain, ushering Nigel inside.

Nigel couldn’t mask his amazement at the massive stone columns, the scads of musty old portraits that actually moved, everywhere, on every wall of the place, and the torches that crackled softly overhead—no electric lights anywhere. It was as if he had entered the set of some gothic film or something, complete with stone floors, gargoyles and vaulted ceilings. Nigel found himself gasping in wonder at the magnificent sight.

“Let’s go to the Great Hall for a little luncheon,” McGonagall said. “I hope you’re hungry.”

“I’m a growing teenaged boy,” Nigel assured her. “I’m always hungry.”

The Great Hall was truly great. It had the strangest ceiling that seemed to reflect the weather outside, though it had no visible windows anywhere that Nigel could detect. Four long tables stretched from end to end, and another table, at the head of the room, stood proudly on the lengthy dais. The three of them sat at the head table. McGonagall tapped a golden plate, and before Nigel’s eyes, a platter of roasted chicken and potatoes appeared.

“What the…” Nigel started. Astonishing!

“Tuck in,” McGonagall said casually, as if it were perfectly normal for food to appear magically on one’s plate. Both she and Snape served themselves and began eating. All Nigel could do was sit there stupidly, in complete disbelief, still reeling from what he had just witnessed.

“Are you all right, dear?” McGonagall asked, noticing that Nigel still hadn’t eaten a bite. “Can we get you something different?”

“Oh, no, ma’am, it’s lovely,” Nigel said. “It’s just that I’ve never seen things appear out of nowhere before.” He shrugged sheepishly and began to eat. Actually, the food was excellent, nearly as good as his mum’s cooking.

“It didn’t appear out of nowhere,” Snape replied sourly. “It came from the kitchens, naturally.”

“Naturally,” Nigel echoed mechanically. It was better not to think at this juncture, Nigel thought. He was afraid the man in black might do something terrible to him. 

He had never seen such a person, at once so grand in his stature and so dangerous in his air. This Snape bloke appeared to be a man worthy of great admiration and profound fear—Nigel couldn’t decide between the two, and so he kept his attentions focused on McGonagall. She seemed stern in her own way, but kind, almost grandmotherly.

“We have a serious matter to discuss with you, Nigel,” McGonagall said matter-of-factly. “What you said to me yesterday, about not seeing Hogwarts and then suddenly being able to see it. Can you explain this?”

“Not really. As I told you yesterday, I was in a bad accident in London, visiting my cousin. We were off together, just going out, you know, and then when I was trying to cross the street, this big lorry sped through the intersection and knocked me down.”

“Goodness!” McGonagall gasped.

“I was severely injured, in fact, I nearly died,” Nigel explained. “For a while it seemed like I wouldn’t survive or that I’d have terrible brain damage or be in a wheelchair. No one thought I’d live long. And then one night, just as it seemed like I had turned a corner and was starting to improve, I apparently started hemorrhaging inside, and they had to rush me into emergency surgery to fix whatever had just gone wrong. They gave me a blood transfusion afterward, I don’t know how many units of blood, and then it was really strange. The very next day, I started feeling a lot better. I felt this funny sort of prickle inside, like I had just gotten a jolt of electricity.”

Snape peered at him carefully with his fierce black eyes, looking into him, into his mind even. Nigel suddenly felt very uneasy, as if he were being x-rayed.

“Tell us,” Snape said silkily, “did you notice any other changes after that incident? Any changes in perception or behaviour?”

Nigel placed his fork back down on his plate and cracked his knuckles. “OK, watch this.” 

He stuck out his hand, narrowed his eyes, and in an instant, the fork flew into his grip. McGonagall and Snape were stunned.

Nigel smiled at his little trick. “I couldn’t do that before the accident, but ever since, I can do that and a lot more!”

“Does your family know about this ability?” Snape asked.

“I’ve never done this in front of anyone. I thought I’d try it on my schoolmates, pretend I’m a magician!” He sniggered at his own joke. But McGonagall and Snape did not snigger with him. Indeed, they looked positively appalled.

“Is that what you think this is, a bunch of magic tricks?” Snape hissed. McGonagall placed a soothing hand on his and gave him a little pat.

“Well no, but…no. Sorry.” Nigel shifted uneasily in his seat. He didn’t mean to upset the scary man in black. He feared Snape might turn him into a toad.

“This is impossible!” Snape snapped.

“I admit it’s rare,” McGonagall began.

“Rare? I have never heard of a muggle suddenly becoming a wizard! Impossible!”

“Well obviously it’s happened, Severus. We just need to figure out how it happened.”

Nigel couldn’t believe this wild talk. “Wait a minute! Wait!” he hollered. “What do you mean about being a wizard?”

“Well it’s obvious that you are, my dear,” McGonagall said.

“Hold on a minute. What was that other word you used? Muggle?”

Snape sighed impatiently and flicked an eyebrow at him.

“Someone who’s not a witch or wizard is a muggle,” McGonagall said.

“But I’m not a wizard,” Nigel said. “I’m C of E! I swear! I don’t go in for all that Wicca stuff! My parents would kill me!”

Snape rolled his eyes derisively. “This isn’t anything to do with religion, boy. It has everything to do with special abilities, a profound integration with the forces of the universe. And it is something one is born with. It can only be trained, but not acquired.”

“Well apparently Mr. Chaucer is an exception to this, Severus.”

“I don’t think so. I think the trauma of his ordeal awakened a power that was already within him.”

“Then why could he not see Hogwarts until last week?” McGonagall asked. “Only witches and wizards can see Hogwarts! We all know that! Even squibs can see Hogwarts!”

Snape couldn’t answer. For that matter, neither could Nigel. As far as he knew, the two of them were speaking perfect donkey twaddle. A wizard? Snape was right—it was impossible, especially if it was all about being integrated with the universe, or whatever Snape had said. This was all a big misunderstanding. Nigel reckoned that perhaps because of his head injuries, the way his brain was wired got changed somehow, and gave him abilities that he never had before. That had to be it. It had to be.


	5. Back to School

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Invited to Hogwarts to meet Professor Dumbledore, Nigel can barely wait. So why won't his parents believe him? What can he possibly do to convince them that he's not crazy?

For the next couple of weeks, Nigel was unable to return to Hogwarts. He had to get ready for the start of the school year, and then, of course, there were more parties and reunions with his friends as they returned from their summer holidays. Together, they went to the cinema, played video games at Jimmy’s house, shopped for new school supplies and hung out at cafes and bistros around town. Nigel was tempted to take his friends to Hogsmeade and to let them try butterbeer, but he decided to keep that to himself. For now.

The pronouncement from Prof. McGonagall that he was…a wizard…troubled Nigel more than he was willing to admit to anyone, especially to his family. They were already growing impatient with his insistence on the existence of Hogwarts and Hogsmeade, and if he suddenly burst in and said, “Guess what, Mum? The lady at the invisible magic castle said I’m a wizard!” Nigel was pretty sure his parents would ship him off to a mental institution for the profoundly befuddled. And if he tried to explain the Quidditch pitch or the moving paintings, they’d throw away the key forever.

On the other hand, if it were really true that he was a wizard…Nigel shuddered to think of it. What would this mean for him, for his future? If it were true that this whole magic thing really was real, and more than just making a fork move, then what? Every morning Nigel woke up, stretched, scratched his belly and stumbled to the window. He half expected the castle to disappear again, and with it, McGonagall, Snape, Quidditch, Sugar Quills and all those owls.

Back at school, the entire student population greeted Nigel with a huge welcome back bash—they made signs, had balloons and confetti and even presents for him as he walked the corridors of the school for the first time in months. Girls hugged him, guys, slapped him on the back—gently, that is—and the teachers cried at seeing him again. It was good to be back. At least one thing in his life was normal.

Mrs. Havers, the headmistress, made extra sure that Nigel had everything he needed, and told him again and again that if needed the slightest thing, to let her know. Nigel was flattered.

“I think I’ll be alright, ma’am,” he replied, trying to be as dismissive as possible.

As he sat in his classes, focusing once again on maths and literature and history, Nigel wondered whether it showed, that is, whether anyone could sense that he was a…wizard. Could they see some change in him? Could they feel this strange new power emanating from his body and mind? It was still too strange to think about, and now that he was back with the…the muggles…all Nigel wanted was for everything to be the same as ever. If they knew what he was, what he had become, Nigel feared they might reject him altogether, lump him in with the freaks and the loser crowd. He wasn’t popular enough to be different.

But the magical world beckoned to him again. One day in early September, an owl appeared on his windowsill, waiting quietly for him to arrive home from school. Nigel let his schoolbag fall to the floor as he threw open the window and let the little brown owl inside. It had a roll of parchment tied to its leg, which Nigel figured, was some sort of message. He untied the roll and read the message:

_Dear Mr. Chaucer,_

_I hope all is well with you now that you have started school again. Professor Snape and I have informed our headmaster, Professor Albus Dumbledore, about you, and he would like very much to meet you and talk to you. If you could come on Saturday morning at ten, we will be waiting for you at the gates. Return this owl with your response._

_Sincerely,  
Professor M. McGonagall  
Deputy Headmistress  
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_PS: We would appreciate it if you could provide us with a list of your family surnames. It will help us greatly in determining what may have happened to you._

Family surnames? This was getting serious. Nigel knew he would have to tell his parents, regardless of the risk involved. If he had to do a trick for them to persuade them, then he would. He scribbled, “See you Saturday,” on the note, rolled it back up and tied it to the owl’s leg, then let it fly out of his window. He sensed trouble.

That night at dinner, the trouble made itself manifest when he told his parents about the owl.

“…and so,” Nigel continued, “Professor McGonagall wants me to come to the castle for an interview with their headmaster. Albert Something. I forget. I think he’s the man with the white beard I saw before.”

Mr. Chaucer fumed. “I have had just about enough of this, Nigel. I’m worried about you, son! You must realize that what you’re saying is complete madness!”

“But Dad, they think I’m a wizard or something! That would explain why I can see the castle and no one else can!”

“There is NO CASTLE! Please leave this table, Nigel, and do not return until you are ready to talk sense and TRUTH!”

“I’m not lying, Dad! I swear it!” The lights flickered overhead and the soup on the table boiled in their bowls.

“Leave. NOW” Mr. Chaucer barked.

Nigel jumped up and stomped off to his room. The doors of the sideboard slammed open and shut. It was so unfair. OK, so he knew that the whole story sounded daft, but to call him a liar? That was uncalled for. Stung by the accusation, Nigel slammed his door shut and threw himself angrily on his bed, growling and grumbling all the while. His mind raced as he lay there, too upset to move or get up or speak. Nigel watched the sun set and the sky fade into purple twilight tinged by pink lines of clouds along the glowing horizon. Finally, Nigel sat up and moved to the window, looking out again at Hogwarts, glittering in the near distance.

“It’s real,” he whispered to himself. “It’s real. It’s real.”

* * * * *

Nigel determined to prove himself, and he was doubly determined to return to Hogwarts on Saturday to meet the headmaster, no matter what his parents said, though he hoped he wouldn’t have to resort to sneaking about. If only he could sit his parents down calmly and quietly and just talk, maybe even show them what he could do with this magic stuff, then maybe they’d believe him. Maybe they couldn’t see Hogwarts because they didn’t want to see it. More confusion.

At school that week, he could barely keep his mind on his studies because of his thoughts about the mystery of his alleged change. For the first time in his academic career, Nigel’s grades started slipping a bit—he found it nearly impossible to study anything at all, and his quizzes that week reflected this. Teachers attributed his academic slip to his long absence and convalescence and gave him extra time to make things up and even do things over.

And then it happened, right in the middle of his maths class. The teacher was explaining a certain equation to the class, and had written much of it on the board, except for one thing. He did the problem incorrectly and was certain to get the wrong answer. Nigel could see this right away, and wished that he had a piece of chalk in his hand so he could help the teacher do the problem correctly.

Before everyone, a long piece of white chalk wiggled in the chalk tray, floated upward and then shot right into Nigel’s waiting hand whilst astonished eyes watched in complete disbelief. Horrified at what he’d just done, Nigel quickly snatched the chalk out of the air, desperate to pretend that nothing colossally strange had just occurred. He raised his hand. 

The maths teacher, equally shocked by the spectacle, blustered out a “Yes, Nigel?”

“I see you’ve challenged us to find mistakes in the equation. May I revise it?” He stood up and trod to the board, where he erased the incorrect equation and replaced it with the right answer. The teacher looked on in embarrassment and distress as Nigel casually returned to his seat. The class exploded in excited chatter.

“That was wicked, Chaucer!” Jimmy crowed.

“Do that again!” a girl said eagerly.

“Yeah, Nigel, make our maths books disappear!” another girl chimed in. Everyone laughed.

But that wasn’t the end of it. At lunch the next day, Jimmy spilt mustard on his white shirt, making a huge stain all over the front of him.

“Aw shite!” Jimmy snapped, furious with himself. “My mum just bought me this shirt! It was £25!”

“Mustard is a pain in the arse to get out, mate,” Clive pointed out. Everyone thrust napkins at Jimmy to help him clean up.

Feeling bad for his friend, Nigel narrowed his eyes at the stain, wishing it gone. And then it was, just like that. Jimmy and Clive goggled in amazement. So did several others who had witnessed the incident. 

“How do you do that stuff?” Clive asked in wonderment.

“Mirrors,” Nigel laughed.

“You’re a freak, Chaucer,” Jimmy replied with a smirk.

“You’re a slob, Barrett,” Nigel shot back. They all laughed.

The incident unfortunately drew the attention of Mrs. Havers, who did not look upon it with a friendly eye. She took a few cramped notes in her little black notebook, glared at Nigel with her beady eyes, and dismissed him to his next class.

By the time Friday afternoon had arrived, Nigel was exhausted from anticipation and from the attention he had gotten at school. Popular opinion was that Nigel had learned a few fun tricks whist in hospital—after all, what else was there to do when one is stuck in bed for weeks on end? Either way, Nigel began to feel terribly uncomfortable, and began to wish he had kept his new abilities to himself. He didn’t want to call it magic yet. Not until he had met with McGonagall again.

But his parents were unwilling to let him out of the house Saturday.

“You’re grounded, Nigel,” Mrs. Chaucer, standing at Nigel’s bedroom door. “All weekend.”

“What did I do?” he cried.

“For your cheek the other day,” she replied. “I spoke with Mrs. Havers yesterday. She said you’ve been causing trouble at school, creating scenes in class and at lunch.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Nigel protested. “It just happened! I didn’t know the stain was going to vanish! I just sort of hoped it would. I was just as surprised as everyone else!”

“You’re still grounded,” she insisted. So there.

If he could make chalk fly and mustard stains disappear, then Nigel was sure he could get out of the house Saturday morning to go back to Hogwarts. On the other hand, he felt bad about deceiving his parents. He thought about trying to reason with them, allaying their fears in some way. But he simply could not allow himself to be grounded.

“Mum, can I show you something?” Nigel asked.

Mrs. Chaucer sat on his bed and folded her arms defiantly. “What?”

Nigel quickly looked about the bedroom, trying to find something he could use to show her. Then he saw it—the window. It had to open, for so many reasons. The air in the room was stale, and it was quite warm. And if he could open it with his…magic…then she might start to believe him. He narrowed his eyes on the window, desperate to see it open. It did nothing. He looked again, now a little panicked. Come on, he thought. Mrs. Chaucer stood up. 

“Look, Nigel, I have things to do,” she said, heading for the door. She turned to scowl at him.

NO! She can’t leave! Nigel focused again, determined, adamant. And then it happened. The window jiggled a little, then a little more, and then, in full sight of his mother, BAM! The window flew open with such force that the glass actually shattered.

“Oh no!” Nigel cried, horrified at what he’d done. If only the glass would repair itself…

And just like that, the shards and dust and remnants of the shattered window came to life, took on a certain force of energy and careened back into place, as if nothing had happened. Mrs. Chaucer turned white. She wobbled for a moment, on her feet, now looking at her son with foreign eyes. Nigel could see her trying to rationalise what she had just witnessed, and when she couldn’t, her face fell.

“When…when is this meeting?” she asked.


	6. Remedial Magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He was just as cold, just as callously aloof as he had been the first day Nigel met him. Same pompous air, same billowing black robes, buttoned high at the throat and smartly down his powerful forearms. Severus Snape was not the sort of bloke one could have a chat with over a butterbeer, Nigel surmised. He wondered what this headmaster would be like, if he would be as stern as Snape or nicer, like McGonagall._

He was just as cold, just as callously aloof as he had been the first day Nigel met him. Same pompous air, same billowing black robes, buttoned high at the throat and smartly down his powerful forearms. Severus Snape was not the sort of bloke one could have a chat with over a butterbeer, Nigel surmised. He wondered what this headmaster would be like, if he would be as stern as Snape or nicer, like McGonagall.

But those anxieties were put right out of Nigel’s mind as he walked again through the beautiful Hogwarts grounds, this time led by the giant, Rubeus Hagrid. All around him, moving in every direction, donning long black robes over what looked like normal school uniforms, were students, scads and scads of teenagers and smaller kids, hurrying off to study or play, looking not so different from Nigel himself. A few gave Nigel a curious look as they rushed past, but otherwise, they were too preoccupied with making it to their destinations.

Some of the girls were quite pretty, as pretty as any girl in his school. They were all shapes and sizes—blonde, brunette, a smattering of redheads. Most kids were white, but not all. Nigel saw kids who were black, Indian, Arabic, Asian. One girl in particular, an Asian girl with long black hair, glanced over at Nigel, winked at him and giggled, then scurried off with her friends.

“Come on now, ‘e’s waiting fer ya,” Hagrid said, about ten gargantuan paces ahead of Nigel. His legs were getting sore again as he rushed along to keep up the pace.

They entered into the castle, again surrounded by the many moving paintings and burning torches and vaulted ceilings. Hagrid stopped for a moment to let Nigel catch up.

“Sorry,” Nigel said, huffing and puffing. “I’m a little slow these days.”

“No matter,” Hagrid said diffidently. He began to climb the stone staircase, Nigel tagging along behind.

And then, there he was, at the top of the stairs, arms folded casually, glaring at the giant and the boy in jeans and his best tweed jacket. Snape approached Nigel, and with all the warmth of a rattlesnake, said to Hagrid, “That will be all, Hagrid.” And to Nigel, “You, boy, with me.”

Nigel followed. More students flooded past, now looking at the stranger in muggle clothing being led along the corridor by Professor Snape. Who was this boy and why was he in trouble with Snape? What had he done? And a more important question: why wasn’t he a student at Hogwarts? Maybe he was a foreigner, maybe an American or a Canadian visiting a relative. A gang of tall, rough-looking boys in green ties and lethal expressions greeted Snape with feigned veneration.

“Good morning, Professor Snape,” the blond boy in the group said. He had a lean, pointy face and sharp grey eyes. Clearly, this boy was the leader of the pack.

“Malfoy, Goyle, Crabbe, Zabini,” Snape replied, in a tone more synthetic than theirs. They were novice sycophants. Snape was a master thespian.

At long last, they arrived at a doorway, protected by what looked like a stone gargoyle. Snape muttered some password—Nigel was too distracted by more moving paintings to hear it—and up the winding staircase they went, into a grand, massive office, littered by some of the strangest objects Nigel had ever seen. He quivered with anticipation at who might occupy this weird office. What would this headmaster be like?

As on every other wall of the castle, the portraits in the office moved, but that was the least interesting aspect of the room. Everywhere Nigel looked, there were little silver instruments, spinning and whirring and supposedly measuring or detecting something, though Nigel had no idea what. The most interesting part of the room was the elderly man in funny eyeglasses, the man in the long white beard Nigel had seen before. He dressed in brightly coloured robes that made his hair sparkle and shimmer.

“I have brought him, Headmaster,” Snape said dully.

The headmaster approached Nigel and, with an impish twinkle in his eye, he greeted Nigel with a warm handshake. Nigel noticed that one of the headmaster’s hands was badly withered. It looked like it hurt. On the other hand, Nigel was impressed by the energy and vitality of such an old man, and he supposed that all this magic likely kept him so spry.

“Welcome to Hogwarts, Mr. Chaucer. My name is Professor Albus Dumbledore. I have heard much about you, and I am most eager to speak to you today.”

“Nice to meet you, sir,” he said. “You have a beautiful school here.”

“Thank you very much. Please, sit,” Dumbledore said, indicating a chintzy, squashy chair that suddenly appeared in the centre of the room. A little daunted, Nigel sat, wondering what else might appear. “I understand that until very recently, you were not able to see Hogwarts.”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“You were in hospital?”

“For a few months.”

“Professor Snape tells me you had blood transfusions.”

“Many, sir. I was very badly injured.”

“Tell him about the one you related to us,” Snape interjected.

“Well, as I said earlier, I began to feel a lot better after a certain transfusion. I felt a change internally, like electricity was suddenly charging through my veins. And then, I started noticing different things.”

“Such as?” Dumbledore asked.

“Well, for example, things happen to the lights when I get upset. And sometimes windows open on me when I get really angry. That happened the other day.”

Dumbledore looked deep within Nigel, so that once again, Nigel felt like he was feeling x-rayed and his mind was being penetrated in some unwelcome way. Nigel instinctively averted his eyes until the feeling went away.

“How does this electricity feel?” Dumbledore asked, quite fascinated.

“Just like that. Like electricity. Like…power. It’s hard to explain. I feel a sort of new energy I never felt before.”

“And you’re certain it is not due to medication or to new blood?” Snape asked.

“I don’t think so, sir. The medications mostly make me drowsy. They’re painkillers.”

“Do you know who donated the blood to you, Nigel?” Dumbledore asked.

“No. I suppose I could find out. I guess it depends on whether they keep those sorts of records. Could that be important?”

“It is possible, I suppose,” Snape reluctantly acquiesced. “Very slightly possible.”

* * * * *

Nigel was in luck. After a few phone calls and a little research that week, he found out the names of the people who had donated blood to him. The list Nigel compiled, which he brought back to Hogwarts the following Saturday, contained over 10 names, including Jenna Bingham, Dudley McAvoy, Cieran Tuite, Poppy Owens, Fred Weasley…

Dumbledore cracked the slightest of grins. “Those Weasleys,” he said.

“Is he a wizard?” Nigel asked.

“A pureblooded wizard, in fact,” Dumbledore replied. “Very strong magic in that family.”

“Why would Mr. Weasley donate blood to a muggle hospital?” McGonagall wondered.

Snape reacted merely with an exasperated sneer. He muttered something unintelligible under his breath. Nigel could have sworn he heard Snape say something like “bloody meddler.”

“Wasn’t there an earthquake that month?” McGonagall said.

“That was in Iran!” Snape replied.

“Yes, but thousands of muggles died! I seem to recall that the muggles were asking people to donate blood to help the victims!”

“That’s no reason for a wizard to interfere,” Snape said matter-of-factly. “He should have known better.”

“It is evidence of Mr. Weasley’s desire to help another person,” Dumbledore said simply. “Not a capital crime, Severus.”

Snape sighed heavily. “I didn’t mean to say it was a crime, Headmaster,” he said. “I…”

“I know, Severus. I don’t entirely disagree with you, but we must agree that his intentions were honourable.”

Nigel could only look on in confusion as the three professors talked at length about the problem this seemed to cause. He couldn’t exactly understand why they were taking this so seriously. After all, so what if he was a wizard? How does this really change anything? he thought. This was much ado about nothing.

“Actually, Mr. Chaucer,” Dumbledore said to Nigel, “it is not much ado about nothing.”

That gave Nigel a shock. How did he…

“But I don’t understand, sir,” Nigel protested. “It doesn’t change anything, just because I seem to be able to make a few things move.”

Snape rolled his eyes and grunted with revulsion.

“As a matter of fact, Mr. Chaucer,” McGonagall said gently, “it changes everything. As a wizard, you have powers far beyond simply making a few objects move. Any child can do that in our world. But there is a whole wealth of magic literally at your fingertips, and you must learn what it is and how to use it.”

“Precisely,” Dumbledore added. “And you must come here to learn it. That is absolute.”

“That’s not possible,” Nigel replied. “I’ve got a very busy life, and I’m only just starting to catch up with everything I’ve missed since my accident.”

“But you have now changed, Mr. Chaucer,” McGonagall said. “Your future will take a drastically different turn.”

Nigel furrowed his brow. “Look, I appreciate your interest in my future, but my future is already set. I plan to attend Cambridge, and then on to medical school in America. That’s been my dream for a very long time. I can’t just drop everything to learn magic. I have friends and school, and I have every intention of being a physician and living a normal life, with or without magic!”

“Don’t you understand, you foolish boy…” Snape began.

“Severus!” Dumbledore said in a warning tone.

Snape took a breath and continued. “It is crucial that you learn magic, Mr. Chaucer. Here. You can’t do it on your own. None of us can!”

“Crucial?” Nigel said, now a little huffy. He began to resent Snape’s intrusions and his insults.

“Yes, crucial! Your magic will not go away simply by not using it. And if you don’t know how to channel it and tame it, it will overpower you and make itself known precisely when you don’t want it to.”

“That hasn’t happened yet,” he said.

“Oh really?” Snape replied. “So in a rush of emotion, lights never flickered? Objects stayed put?”

Nigel blushed, remembering what had happened the other day at home. Snape smirked haughtily.

“I can’t just drop everything to learn magic,” Nigel said. “First of all, my parents would never allow it. They don’t even believe that this castle exists! I can’t just go home and say I’m quitting school to attend lessons at the invisible castle to learn magic tricks! They’ll lock me up! They already think I’m barkers as it is!”

“Let us all speak calmly and rationally,” Dumbledore said mildly. “It is imperative, as Professor Snape said, that you learn to channel and tame your powers. There are many valid reasons for this. First of all, we have laws about keeping the magical world secret. Any violation of that may bring severe punishment. The very last thing we need is a uncontrolled wizard running loose.”

“Why the secrecy?”

“As you know,” Snape said, “muggles have not always been so friendly toward the magical community. We have worked hard to keep our worlds happily apart. What we don’t need is a headstrong teenaged boy mucking up the works because he doesn’t want to study.”

“Please, Severus,” Dumbledore said, a grain of irritation in his voice. “Second of all, we don’t want you accidentally injuring someone with an unintended spell.”

That made some sense to Nigel. He sighed resignedly. “But, I just can’t leave my school, my life, my friends. Can’t we make a compromise?”

They looked at him and then at each other with consternation. McGonagall spoke first. “What about private lessons, just to teach him a few basics?”

“That would hardly suffice,” Snape said flatly.

“Like Saturdays? Week-ends?” Nigel said, a little interested now. “I could do that.”

Dumbledore frowned. “I don’t know about that, Minerva,” he said. “I quite agree with Severus that he should be here full-time.”

“I’m a good student in school,” Nigel said. “I always get high marks in all my subjects. I’ll study hard for you, too. I promise! I’ll do whatever reading you want, even if I have to do it during the school week.”

“You don’t learn magic from a book, Mr. Chaucer!” Snape snapped, offended.

“He does need to learn the spells, though,” McGonagall said. “And the history of magic, and potions, and defence against the Dark Arts. All of those require reading.”

“We can arrange a reasonable schedule for you, Mr. Chaucer,” Dumbledore said. “But we do need to decide who will give you those lessons.”

At that, both McGonagall and Dumbledore rested their eyes on Snape. Snape scowled fiercely. So did Nigel. McGonagall stood up and took Nigel by the elbow. “Come, Nigel,” she said, steering him toward the door. “Let me take you down to the Great Hall so you can meet some of the students.” She threw a warning look to Dumbledore and led a very worried Nigel Chaucer down the steps and down the corridor…


	7. Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Why aren’t you here at Hogwarts?” she asked. Ron looked on, a slightly vacant expression on his freckled face._
> 
> _“I wasn’t a wizard until recently,” Nigel replied matter-of-factly. That made perfect sense, didn’t it? It did to Nigel._
> 
> _Apparently not to these kids, and in fact, Hermione and the rest threw each other mirthful looks._
> 
> _“So you just ‘became’ a wizard one day?” Ron asked sarcastically. Ginny laughed._
> 
> _“Well yeah,” Nigel said, a bit defencive. “I was a muggle all my life, and then after this accident I was in, I…uh…well, I sort of…became a wizard.” Using these terms still felt strange to Nigel, and for a moment, he couldn’t believe he was having this conversation._
> 
> _“That’s impossible,” Hermione said authoritatively. “You’re either a wizard or not a wizard. You don’t just become one.”_
> 
> _“That’s what Professor Snape said,” Nigel replied._
> 
> _The four of them scowled at the mention of Snape’s name._

The Great Hall was packed with students that early afternoon, chatting, playing, eating lunch, laughing. They sat at the four long tables, not so different from the class tables at Nigel’s own school. And like Nigel’s school, the teachers sat at the head table, chatting in a far more dignified manner as they ate their roasted chicken and potatoes. McGonagall brought Nigel to the centre of one of the tables and presented him to a small group of students, who included a girl with bushy brown hair and large teeth, a lanky red-headed boy, another boy with jet black hair and round glasses and a scar on his face, and a very pretty girl with long red hair. Nigel wondered if the two redheads were related.

“Everyone, this is Nigel Chaucer. He is new to our community. Nigel, this is Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley.”

So the two redheads were related. Nigel smiled and shook hands with them.

“Welcome to the Gryffindor table,” Ginny said cheerfully.

“What’s that?” Nigel asked. “Your dormitory?”

Ginny nodded, but Hermione took over. “There are four houses here at Hogwarts: Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and Slytherin.”

Nigel snorted at the last name. “Slytherin? Sounds like a nest of vipers!”

Harry scowled a bit. So did Ron. “It is,” Ron replied. Nigel blushed.

“The houses tend to keep to themselves,” Hermione went on. “We interact a bit, but not tremendously, especially the Slytherins. They only like those who are like them.”

“Yeah,” Ron interjected, “snobby, bad-tempered and stupid!”

Hermione threw him a nasty look and continued. “See, there have been house rivalries for centuries, in the classroom, the Quidditch pitch and to some degree politically. Every house has its traditions and its own, unique character.”

“So what are Gryffindors known for?” Nigel asked.

“Saving the bloody world, right, Harry?” Ron quipped.

“Oh, of course,” Harry shot back. “Performing tremendous works of charity, building mountains, making the trains run on time, that sort of thing.” They all laughed.

“So what school do you go to, Nigel?” Hermione asked, looking at him with all the intensity of a peasant woman inspecting a prize turkey. “Surely not in Britain.”

“ Oh yeah, just the next town over! My school is called St. Luke Prep. It’s just the high school in my town. It’s not magical or anything.”

“Why aren’t you here at Hogwarts?” she asked. Ron looked on, a slightly vacant expression on his freckled face.

“I wasn’t a wizard until recently,” Nigel replied matter-of-factly. That made perfect sense, didn’t it? It did to Nigel.

Apparently not to these kids, and in fact, Hermione and the rest threw each other mirthful looks.

“So you just ‘became’ a wizard one day?” Ron asked sarcastically. Ginny laughed.

“Well yeah,” Nigel said, a bit defencive. “I was a muggle all my life, and then after this accident I was in, I…uh…well, I sort of…became a wizard.” Using these terms still felt strange to Nigel, and for a moment, he couldn’t believe he was having this conversation.

“That’s impossible,” Hermione said authoritatively. “You’re either a wizard or not a wizard. You don’t just become one.”

“That’s what Professor Snape said,” Nigel replied.

The four of them scowled at the mention of Snape’s name. “What, does he know about you?” Harry sniped.

“He was pretty freaked out when I told him what happened. And now, I think the Headmaster is talking him into teaching me some magic lessons.”

“I think I’d rather be a squib than be alone for five seconds with Snape,” Ron confessed bitterly.

“What’s a squib? That’s the second time I’ve heard that term.”

“Someone from a magical family but who has no powers,” Hermione said.

“Maybe there’s a squib in your background,” Ginny said. She really was quite pretty, Nigel thought. He loved red hair, especially on girls, and began to imagine himself running his hands through Ginny’s, luxuriously, languidly…

For a while, the five of them chatted on, soon joined by a few others—a nervous looking, rather round-faced boy called Neville, a short blond boy with wide eyes and an interminably excited expressed. His name was Colin. Nigel told them about his school, about Jimmy and Clive, about his parents, his town, his ex-girlfriend, the game of Cricket. That thoroughly confused everyone at the table, and Ginny couldn’t understand how people could watch such a slow moving game for several hours at a time. Nigel also told them about his accident and about the blood transfusion which brought about all this magic.

“You know, one of the donors was called Fred Weasley,” Nigel said to Ginny. “I don’t suppose he could be any relation to you?”

Ginny and Ron gaped at each other. “He’s only our brother!”

Harry smiled. “I guess that makes you part of the family, then.” But Hermione looked less than impressed by the startling revelation.

Neville raised his eyebrows. “That’s pretty amazing! I’ve never heard of that happening before to anyone! I wonder if my Gran knows about anyone else like you.”

“Why would he be donating blood to muggles?” Hermione wondered. “He should know better than to do that. Our laws would frown on that, no matter the intention.”

“Oh come on, Hermione!” Harry crowed. “Lighten up!”

“There was something about an earthquake in Iran around the same time,” Nigel said. “I guess a lot of people donated blood for the victims.”

“I remember reading about that in the _Times_ ,” Hermione said, still frowning.

“Sounds like something our Fred would do,” Ginny said, a little proudly. “I suppose George did so, too.”

“Actually, yeah, there was also a George Weasley on the list of donors. There were a lot of names on that list, to be honest.”

“You must have lost a lot of blood,” Ginny mused. A pained look fluttered across her face for a moment.

“I did,” Nigel replied morosely. “So who’s George? Another brother?”

“He and Fred are identical twins,” Ron informed him.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Twin pranskers,” Ginny smirked. “They own a joke shop at Diagon Alley. Sort of like Zonko’s, but better.”

“Zonko’s is a…” Hermione began.

“Oh, I know about that place. I passed it when I was in Hogsmeade during the summer,” Nigel said.

Harry chuckled. “Did you buy anything?”

“Nah. I wanted to, but I spent most of my money at that sweetshop. The lady looked pretty peeved when all I had was British pounds.”

Everyone laughed. Just then, a tall slim shadow passed overhead, and right behind Nigel was that blond boy he had passed in the hall the previous week. On closer inspection, this boy looked a bit like David Cromwell, captain of the St. Luke rugby team—David was mean, pompous, aggressive and well-connected with the worst elements of the school and the town. His father held vast properties all over the region—he was a millionaire who routinely had city officials, judges, and policemen at his beck and call. Nigel wondered if this boy was anything like David.

He was, as it turned out. Even more so, which Nigel learned right away. This boy, called Draco Malfoy, glared down his long thin nose at him imperiously, his pale blue eyes narrowed contemptuously.

“What’s this, Potter,” he began, a sharp note of surliness in his voice, “some new creature you’ve dragged in?”

Harry glared at him. “Bugger off, Malfoy!” he snapped.

“Nice language, Potter! Don’t say it if you don’t mean it! Just be careful how you speak to Prefects, or you might find yourself in detention.” And with that, Malfoy and his two massive cronies slouched off toward their own table.

“Nice guy,” Nigel said sarcastically.

“Don’t bother with those three,” Ginny said. “They’re the school brutes.”

“Downright ruddy bastards, if you ask me,” Ron said sullenly.

Hermione gave him a look reminiscent of Professor McGonagall, which Ron resented deeply. But before they could explode into an argument, the sight of Professor Snape sweeping through the crowded Great Hall, headed straight for the Gryffindor table caused everyone to quiet down immediately. Hermione sat up a little straighter, but Ron slumped back in an attempt to be as inconspicuous as possible.

“Mr. Chaucer,” Snape proclaimed in a strained purr, “come with me. And Weasley, sit up straight.”

“Good luck,” Ginny said, suppressing a smirk. Harry kicked Ron under the table.

Nigel immediately rose from his bench, waved furtively to his new friends and followed Snape down the long row, as all eyes watched, past the head table, out the door and toward the grounds. Snape didn’t speak until they were far away from the building. He indicated a space of grass where Nigel could sit. Snape, on the other hand, positioned himself on a large flat rock that could easily have fit them both. Nigel obediently sat on the grass.

“Now then, Mr. Chaucer,” Snape began. “I am charged by the Headmaster to teach you a few rudimentary aspects of magic. We shall do so in an organized fashion, so that I will not interfere with your normal routine and more importantly, so that you will not interfere with mine.”

“Sounds good,” Nigel said. “Sir.”

“Firstly, you will need a few supplies to get yourself started, which means you will need to go to London.”

“How am…”

“I shall accompany you to London personally, which is something I normally wouldn’t do for a student. Your case, however, is unique enough to force me to break with my usual routine.”

Nigel thought he was laying it on a bit thick. “Thank you, sir, for your troubles. I promise to be a good student.”

“You will buy books, a few other supplies, and of course, a wand. For the wand, however, we shall have to go to a special place, as our regular wandmaker is otherwise engaged these days.”

Nigel suddenly became troubled. “But sir, London is far away. Isn’t there any place closer? How about Hogsmeade?”

Snape gave him a look of disgust. “Hogsmeade is out of the question, Mr. Chaucer. Furthermore, we need to visit the bank before you can buy anything. You’ll need to exchange your British pounds for Galleons.”

Nigel hadn’t thought about that. Normally, his parents bought his school supplies. Having lost his opportunity for a summer job, Nigel was broke. “That is a problem, sir. I don’t have much money of my own. I mean, I do have a savings account, but I’m reserving that for university. And I know my parents won’t buy me magic books. They just won’t.”

Snape scowled briefly. “We considered that possibility. There are a few ways around that, though not for everything. Hogwarts does have a few extra books that we could loan you for the year, and there are any number of cauldrons and supplies for you to borrow for Potions.”

“That’s a relief, sir.” The dim fog of indigence began to lift.

“However, you do need your own wand. A wand is a very personal item, and will be your most precious possession as a wizard.” Snape took out his own wand and showed it to Nigel. It was long and graceful, ebony black and regal, very expensive looking.

“Nice,” Nigel said. This whole enterprise was starting to look stranger and stranger to Nigel. A magic wand?

But Snape continued on, extremely businesslike. “Your wand will become like a friend of sorts, a companion through life, difficulty, challenge and choices. As I indicated, we have had the great misfortune to lose our finest wandmaker, Mr. Ollivander, however, the situation is not entirely hopeless. A personal acquaintance of mine is a fine maker of the most exotic and luxurious wands, and I’m sure you will receive a very good one.”

“But how much will it cost?”

Snape shrugged. “Mabye thirty, thirty-five galleons?”

“Which translates to?”

Snape thought a moment. “One fifty, one seventy-five pounds.”

“WHAT?!?!?” Nigel bellowed. “I don’t have that kind of money! We’re strictly middle class! My parents will NOT pay for a wand that expensive! They probably won’t want to pay for a wand at all!”

Snape silenced him with a fierce glower. “We also anticipated that. This item, unlike the books, however, will be strictly yours, so we could perhaps arrange a loan for you, with no interest, of course. You could simply pay us over time until the wand is paid off. Surely your parents could withstand that pressure?”

Still fuming, Nigel took a moment to recover from his outburst. “Yes,” he stammered. “Yes, I think that would be OK, sir.”

“Good. Then let us begin.”


	8. Explosions and Other Mishaps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Every Saturday afternoon, Nigel would trudge home, exhausted from his lessons, ready to collapse into bed and stay there permanently. But that was usually impossible. He still had to clean his room and his bathroom, empty the dustbins, and water the back garden. Plus he had homework from school to get finished up—he was way behind in maths and science. Perhaps the worst part for Nigel was that he was still feeling the physical and emotional effects of his long convalescence. Nigel still tired easily, and though he had regained much of his strength, he had a long way to go. Some days, he wondered tragically if he would ever be the same._

Over the next several weeks, Nigel Chaucer quickly learned that doing magic was much more than letting windows slam shut in a fit of emotions. In fact, he hated to admit that everything Snape had told him about control and channeling was spot-on true. The power he possessed, in fact, scared him more than he was willing to admit to anyone. He should have felt liberated by the knowledge that he could literally do anything he wanted, but the reality of that seemed to press on him uncomfortably.

Being a muggle was so much easier. Nigel pined a bit, missing his ordinariness.

The first week of lessons he and Snape focused on simple charms, things like floating objects, basic transfiguration, repairing broken objects, creating simple potions. Unfortunately, Nigel’s first attempt to float a feather in the air resulted in rushing Professor Snape to the Hospital Wing, where he had to take six potions to repair the concussion Nigel had caused him. The next day, Nigel’s first potion smelled so bad that the classroom had to be aired out for four days. The only success Nigel had that week was transforming a toothpick into a shoe, and even then, the shoe was so big it would have been way too big for Hagrid.

Precaution of the week: control.

Every Saturday afternoon, Nigel would trudge home, exhausted from his lessons, ready to collapse into bed and stay there permanently. But that was usually impossible. He still had to clean his room and his bathroom, empty the dustbins, and water the back garden. Plus he had homework from school to get finished up—he was way behind in maths and science. Perhaps the worst part for Nigel was that he was still feeling the physical and emotional effects of his long convalescence. Nigel still tired easily, and though he had regained much of his strength, he had a long way to go. Some days, he wondered tragically if he would ever be the same.

His parents remained cautiously supportive of these new studies. They were not thrilled with the idea of their son learning magic, and they still had great doubts about this supposed castle to which Nigel allegedly retreated every week-end. It all seemed very dodgy to them, despite the growing evidence that this castle was very likely a real place. Slowly, very gradually, they had finally come to believe that Nigel must possess some sort of powers. How could he not? Too many strange things had occurred since his return from London to think otherwise. 

There had been the disappearing dog, for example. The neighbours, the Watsons, who lived in the cottage next to the Chaucers, had a fierce pit bull terrier that barked all night and growled and snapped at people all day long. The dog was so fierce that most people had grown more than a bit wary about even coming anywhere near that house. And then, the dog bit a child, but when nothing was done about the dog, Nigel was furious. In a flurry of emotions, he wished for nothing less than the dog to be gone, once and for all. And then it was. It was not collected by the authorities, nor did it run away, nor was it carted off by the Watsons. No. One Friday afternoon in mid September, Mrs. Watson, a stout lady of about 45, came screaming out of her house, crying, “she’s gone! She’s gone! She disappeared!”

Mrs. Chaucer rushed out of the house to see what the commotion was. Mrs. Watson, with mascara running down her round face, blubbered her story about how she had placed a bowl of kibble on the kitchen floor for Mitzi, the fierce dog, to eat, when right before her eyes, Mitzi simply vanished. When Mrs. Chaucer questioned Nigel about it a few minutes later, all Nigel could do was shrug and blush.

“Nigel, you have to get that dog back,” his mother lectured.

“I don’t know how,” Nigel confessed. “I don’t know where it went.”

Then there was the endless bottle of wine. Nigel’s father had brought home a very expensive bottle of an elegant French Beaujolais, which he and his wife enjoyed very much. For a couple of days afterward, neither of them could stop talking about how wonderful the wine was, and in fact, Mrs. Chaucer confessed that she could have a glass of that Beaujolais every night forever. That gave Nigel an idea for a surprise. He managed to conjure a new bottle of the stuff, and gripping the bottle firmly, uttered an incantation he sort of made up, hoping it would make an endless supply of wine.

It did.

On the other hand, his parents were less than thrilled when he told them how much a wand would cost. In fact, their reaction to the price was not so different from Nigel’s, though they weren’t so mollified by the offer of a loan to pay off the wand over time.

“This is getting to be too much,” Mrs. Chaucer had said. “I’m beginning to have some serious doubts about all this, Nigel.”

“But Mum,” Nigel insisted, “if you’re letting me take these extra lessons, I need a wand. Professor Snape was quite insistent about that. I’ll use my own money…”

“You mean your university savings?” Mr. Chaucer grumbled. “You’ve worked hard on saving that. Taking a hundred seventy-five pounds out of that is not a small thing.”

“It doesn’t thrill me either, Dad,” Nigel admitted. “But this is something I have to do. I’ve got these abilities, and if I don’t learn to control them, we’ll all be in trouble. The whole darn neighbourhood could vanish!”

In the end, Nigel bought himself a very beautiful and, according to Snape, a very powerful wand, eleven inches long, made from maple wood. The core of the wand was an unusual combination of dragon heartstring dipped in legally collected and ministry approved unicorn blood. It was the unicorn blood that made the wand cost Nigel thirty-eight Galleons. He gulped as he calculated how many pounds that would cost him, in spite of Snape’s assurances that this was one of the most extraordinary wands he had ever seen.

“Trust me, Chaucer,” he said. “You need a powerful wand like this. Don’t be so cheap.”

The wandmaker himself was an odd sort of fellow. He never offered his name, and Snape didn’t introduce him. The creaky, white haired black man simply hobbled over to a nervous Nigel, took his measurements, looked into his eyes, felt his thyroid and his spleen, wanted to see Nigel’s bare feet and his palms, and then produced the wand in a green wooden box. 

“There you go, sonny,” he said. “This one is your perfect fit.”

“Go on, Chaucer,” Snape urged. “Pick it up! It won’t bite you.”

“This can’t be real,” he murmured. “I’m actually buying a magic wand.”

“Grow up, Chaucer,” Snape grumbled.

Hesitantly, a nervous Nigel reached out to take the wand, first grazing it with his fingertips. The moment Nigel took the wand into his hands, rolled it up and down his fingers, he could feel how elegant and potent this wand was. He felt strong all of a sudden, protected. The things Snape had told him before about wands all came back to Nigel, and he saw how right Snape truly was.

* * * * *

As October came to a close, Nigel was invited to the Halloween feast by Professor Dumbledore. October 31, six o’ clock sharp, Great Hall. Nigel would sit at the Gryffindor table, though he had never actually been sorted into any house. Nigel wondered if this was a fancy dress party, like it is for muggles, but he decided not to ask, not wanting to embarrass himself any more than necessary. He felt too much like a rube already. At least he had gotten a set of school robes, though with no house insignia on it, so that when he sat with his Gryffindor friends, he didn’t feel so starkly out of place.

“So how are the lessons going, Nigel?” Ginny asked as they all sat at the feast, stuffing themselves full with food. “Surviving Snape alright?”

“Fine. This was the first week where I didn’t burn anything or turn the walls purple,” Nigel said proudly. Everyone laughed.

“It’s OK if you burn Snape’s robes,” Harry jibed. “I won’t even use the Aquamenti charm to put it out!” They all laughed again.

“And hey,” Ron added, “if you happen to turn his big snout purple, I might just give you an award!”

“Oh come on, guys, he’s not so bad,” Nigel began.

Everyone groaned and shouted at that.

“How can you say that?” Ron crowed. “He’s horrible! Awful man!”

“He’s a sadistic prat!” Ginny said. “I hate his guts!”

“He’s really clever, though, and the advice he gives is always right,” Nigel said. He knew Snape could be a little severe, a little too pent up and repressed, but on the other hand, he was always generous with advice and guidance. Nigel refused to think of Snape as entirely bad.

“I know he’s clever,” Harry said. “I mean, hell, he’s way cleverer than I…”

“Or Ron,” Hermione teased. Ron stuck his tongue out at her, which made his girlfriend, Lavender, snigger. Hermione threw her a fierce glare, which Lavender promptly ignored. She stroked Ron’s hair and nibbled his earlobe.

“Most people are cleverer than you two, Harry,” Ginny laughed.

“Snape is just a nasty, greasy, cruel and deceitful ponce!” Harry continued.

“Just because you don’t get along with him, Harry, doesn’t mean that he’s a bad bloke,” Nigel argued.

“He doesn’t get along with anyone!” Harry replied. “I mean really! No one! Not ever! Even when he was at school here, he was always…” Harry stopped. He blanched.

“What?” Nigel said.

“Never mind. You might be right, Nigel, but there’s just too much bad blood between him and me. I don’t think we’ll ever get along,” Harry said.

* * * * *

Nigel spent the next two months learning transfigurations and more charms. He and Snape also began to cover Defence Against the Dark Arts. Nigel had heard about this subject from Harry and the rest, but until the start of December, Snape never so much as even mentioned the subject. There was talk of a Defence club last year, a favourite subject of Neville’s, though it hadn’t revived this year as far as Nigel knew. Neville talked quixotically about how exciting Defence was, how fast-moving and spine-tingling the entire experience was, making Nigel extremely curious. Snape sensed his intense curiosity the moment Nigel mentioned it to him.

“Before you get too ecstatic at the prospect of learning Defence Against the Dark Arts,” Snape began, “I feel it necessary to offer you a little background, so that you see why you need to learn this.”

As Snape began to tell the tale of the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters and Harry Potter, Nigel sat on the edge of his seat, hanging on every word that came out of Snape’s mouth.

“This is not child’s play, Chaucer,” he said, “and it is not to be taken lightly. Mr. Longbottom might think on it as a fun time, but it is far more serious than that.”

“I don’t think…”

“Then don’t. You must understand that whatever you might learn about Defence, the actual practice of it is unpredictable and potentially lethal.”

“I understand that, sir.”

Snape scowled. “I doubt that. You are far too young to appreciate what this truly means. Now that the Dark Lord is back, of course, it is incumbent on all wizardkind to master Defence Against the Dark Arts. In fact, I can teach you spells even the best wizards don’t know about.” His usually cold eyes flickered ravenously, if only for a moment.

“Sir, what is the Dark Lord’s name?”

Snape became flustered. “There are a few people who have the strength to utter the Dark Lord’s name. I confess that I am not so strong. I’m sure your friend, Mr. Potter, will be free to oblige you on that score. But one thing is very clear, Mr. Chaucer. The Dark Lord’s return is no laughing matter, even for you, considering your unusual circumstances. In fact, I am very sure that the Dark Lord knows all about you.”

That didn’t sound good.

“Who would tell him?” Nigel asked, suddenly horrified that such an evil person might know about him.

“You have no doubt met Mr. Malfoy?”

Oh yes, tall, blond bloke, pointy face, sarcastic bully. “Yeah, briefly.”

Snape raised a curious eyebrow. “You can be sure that Mr. Malfoy has told certain people close to the Dark Lord about you and your circumstances. He is, shall we say, well connected.”

“But I never told him anything.”

“Do children at your muggle school spread rumours, Mr. Chaucer?”

“Yes.”

“Witches and wizards are no different from muggles when it comes to gossip, Mr. Chaucer. Every student at this school knows all about you. In fact, I’d wager that you are nearly as famous as Mr. Potter, and he’s the most famous person at this school. Of course, he often likes to remind people of his fame, lest anyone forget about the Boy Who Lived.”

Nigel wasn’t sure how to respond. He suddenly wondered what Harry had wanted to say about Snape at Halloween but for some reason didn’t feel comfortable airing. Nigel suspected that there was much more to his mentor’s story than he was willing to offer, and that Harry might have some information that would shed some new light on Severus Snape.


	9. Surviving Snape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _As hard as the last several months had been, nothing had quite prepared Nigel for someone like Severus Snape. He was surly, mean, insulting, brash and vicious, and that was on a good day. On more than one occasion he had brought Nigel nearly to tears, and that was no small feat. Despite all this, however, Nigel could not bring himself to hate Snape. He didn’t exactly love him, but on the other hand, Nigel had grown to have a deep respect for the man. While he was hard on Nigel when he made mistakes, Nigel could detect a gleam of pride in Snape’s black eyes whenever Nigel did something well, which had become more frequent._

Who was Severus Snape? How was it that he seemed to have such intimate knowledge of some pretty dangerous stuff? And in what way was Malfoy so well-connected to the Dark Lord? Surely he was far too young to be a Death Eater, but on the other hand, perhaps Malfoy had other ways of being connected. Maybe a parent or an uncle or a neighbour. Just who were these wizards, anyway? Nigel never knew any muggles like this, with so many dark connections. Even David Cromwell wasn’t that bad, and he was a snobby prat.

Still burning with curiosity about Professor Snape, Nigel decided to ask Harry what he knew, though Harry was less than responsive to Nigel’s persistent questions.

“It’s nothing,” Harry said later that afternoon. They sat at the Gryffindor table after Nigel’s lessons, sipping pumpkin juice and snacking on crisps.

“Why does he seem to hate you so much? I mean, when he brought you up, he suddenly got all huffy and bitter. Did you have an argument or something?”

Harry rolled his eyes in derision. “My crime, as it were, is that I look almost exactly like my Dad, and my Dad and Snape hated each other in school. They used to throw hexes at each other all the time, only I guess my Dad was a little better at it than Snape.”

“Do you really think he’s that petty?” Nigel wondered. “I always thought he was sort of wise.”

“You can be wise about other people but not necessarily about yourself,” Harry pointed out. “I don’t think he’s that wise about anything.”

Nigel felt sad all of a sudden. “I bet he’s never had a kind word in his whole life. That has to be hard, to go through life all alone like that.”

“He made his choices.”

“Maybe, but at least you and I have friends, connections, people who love us and care about what happens to us. The poor guy doesn’t seem to have anyone. That’s got to be lonely.”

“I don’t buy that for a second,” Harry said bitterly. “I mean, I didn’t exactly have an easy go of it growing up. My cousin, Dudley, used me as a punching bag for more years than I care to remember, and my aunt and uncle forced me to sleep in a closet!”

“What?” Nigel exclaimed. “A closet? You’re joking!”

“The only reason they let me finally sleep in a very small bedroom was because they turned shit scared of me when they learned I was a wizard! They treated me like a disease, lower than a slave! They used to starve me when they thought I was bad!”

“Yeah, but you have friends here at school. I don’t think Snape had even that.”

“I had to make an effort, even in that! I wasn’t Mr. Popular right away or anything, I mean even now, I have to work at friendships.”

“You have a ton of advantages over him,” Nigel insisted.

“Not necessarily. I could have been bitter like Snape was, use my bad childhood as an excuse to be a jerk, but I decided to be open to people instead! I did all I could to be friendly and good to people. Snape brought a lot of his own misery on himself because he couldn’t let go of whatever bitterness he stored inside of his pinched soul!”

Nigel looked about furtively, and then continued in a low voice. “Yeah, but come on, Harry, look at yourself as opposed to him. You’re not exactly what I would term ugly.”

Harry shook his head in protest. “That doesn’t matter. Besides, I’m not exactly a Blaise Zabini or anything. Get real, Nige.”

“Of course appearance matters! It shouldn’t, but it does. What chance do you suppose he had as a kid, with his hair, with that nose? Do you think girls were falling all over him, looking like that? And besides, you came in already famous for vanquishing the Dark Lord!”

Harry gave Nigel a questioning look. “Dark Lord? You mean Lord Voldemort?”

Nigel raised his eyebrows. “Is that his name?”

“Snape told you about Voldemort?”

“The whole story. But he wouldn’t say his name. He said he didn’t dare.”

Harry scowled. “That makes sense, considering Snape’s history.”

“What history?”

Harry leaned in, now whispering. “Snape was a Death Eater back in the day.”

“What?” Nigel cried out. That couldn’t be right. Astonishing! Unthinkable! Snape had just been teaching him to fight against dark wizards like the Dark Lord!

“Some say he repented and works for our side now, but I’m not so sure. I mean, Professor Dumbledore seems to trust him, but then again, he tends to trust just about everyone. Except Lord Voldemort, of course.”

The news of his mentor’s past dark history didn’t sit well with Nigel, and for the rest of the week, he could barely think of anything else. Even at school, he ruminated over it, wondered what Snape did as a Death Eater, why he repented, or if he really did repent. Could Harry be right about Snape? Could it be that Nigel had been instructed by a dark wizard all this time, and right under Dumbledore’s nose? And now that he was learning Defence Against the Dark Arts, Nigel had to wonder if was getting the correct information. But surely Snape wouldn’t want to hurt him. Was he using him in some way? Or could it be that he was teaching Nigel dark magic all this time, banking on Nigel’s complete ignorance of the wizarding world?

“Nigel, are you paying attention?” Miss Boyle snipped at him in literature class a few days later.

“Yes, Miss,” he responded. Everyone giggled. “Sorry.” Clive threw a balled up piece of paper at him, hitting him on the shoulder.

“Then perhaps you can explain this Shakespearian sonnet to us.”

Drat.

It was the one about his mistress whose eyes were nothing like the sun. OK, so the woman was pasty, ugly, smelly, clumsy and had horrible hair. “Um, well, I guess Shakespeare is saying that even the ugliest person in the world has qualities of beauty, but you have to look beyond the external.”

Miss Boyle smiled, impressed by his response. Nigel suddenly realised that he meant what he said, and that he was really talking about Snape. What did Harry know of it anyway? How could he be so unfair? In truth, Nigel began to resent Harry’s intrusions and his diatribes against Snape’s character. After all, how much did any student know about their teachers? Most adults he knew didn’t run around telling their life stories to everyone—who would? Nigel felt that even Harry couldn’t be any more of an expert on Severus Snape than he could. He might have heard rumours about Snape, but those couldn’t be trusted. 

All the same, he determined to learn the truth, especially regarding Snape’s background. Nigel determined to ask him. But how to ask such a question? He couldn’t just come out and ask it, could he? Could Nigel simply blurt out, “So tell me professor, are you still a Death Eater?”

“That is an impertinent question, Mr. Chaucer,” Snape retorted, visibly offended. They sat in the Charms classroom, preparing for today’s lesson on freezing and manipulating the body of one’s opponent.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Nigel said. “It’s just that I was told that you were…”

“Undoubtedly Mr. Potter informed you of this.”

Nigel blushed, feeling suddenly like a meddling voyeur. “Well yes, sir, he did. But I think he was just looking out for me.”

Snape furrowed his brow. “I doubt that. I am sure he has told you of our disagreements?”

Nigel shrugged, wondering how much he should reveal. “He said you two hate each other!”

“How blunt of you, Mr. Chaucer. And disrespectful.”

“I don’t mean any disrespect, sir. Honestly. But if you and I are to continue…”

“Yes, yes, I quite understand your concern. You have, unfortunately, asked me a question I cannot possibly answer, and for reasons that I am not at liberty to disclose to a student. As you grow as a wizard, and as a man, Mr. Chaucer, you will discover that there are situations in play to which you are not privy. I am sure the same is true for myself, and therefore, I have learned not to interfere with things that are not my business.”

“But…”

“My past, my life, my choices, Mr. Chaucer, are MY business. If you have any doubts about the quality of training you are receiving from me…”

“No, it’s not that…”

“Do not interrupt me, boy!” Snape said fiercely. But then his face changed, softened a bit. “Let’s end early today. We’ll pick up on stunning spells next week.”

Nigel felt terrible. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to be so offensive. Really, I didn’t. Please, let’s continue. I almost had the body bind down pat last week. I want to perfect it today.”

Snape glowered a bit, but then relented. He straightened his robes and stood up. “Alright then.”

* * * * *

Christmas neared and the weather began to change around St. Luke and Hogwarts. Snow fell, the air became bracingly cold and forbidding, and the streets and houses all around took on the look of gingerbread houses, iced in crystal white snow drifts, silent and elegant. As beautifully as the town of St. Luke glittered in the snow, the bitter cold took its toll on Nigel’s body, still recovering from the trauma of the accident. Most mornings, Nigel awoke stiff and in excruciating pain, and it usually took him a good hour to get out of bed and into a hot shower.

These days, Nigel divided his time between hanging out with Jimmy, Clive and their friends, finishing up his school work for the end of term, and mastering the Expelliarmus and Accio spells with Snape. Snape had also taught him a few mental charms to confuse and misdirect the minds of potential attackers. Nigel wondered if these new spells didn’t cross the line from simple defence to actual attacks. All the same, since they didn’t seem to cause permanent injuries, he went ahead and learned them. Actually, they helped.

Nigel, in fact, had turned out to be an even better student of magic than he had originally promised. With the mystery of how he actually became a wizard, coupled with his extremely powerful wand and his solid discipline, Nigel had become nearly as powerful as any sixth year student, and in a very short period of time. Nigel attributed this rapid progress to excellent teaching from Snape, who was quick to criticise every mistake Nigel made, sometimes in a very blunt and brutal fashion. Nigel wasn’t too chuffed about being belittled on an almost constant basis by Snape, but on the other hand, the abuse had made Nigel that much more determined to get it right. After all, he had survived a terrible accident, horrible pain, long, lonely nights in hospital, and the arduous process of reclaiming his life. The verbal assaults from Severus Snape were nothing by comparison.

As hard as the last several months had been, nothing had quite prepared Nigel for someone like Severus Snape. He was surly, mean, insulting, brash and vicious, and that was on a good day. On more than one occasion he had brought Nigel nearly to tears, and that was no small feat. Despite all this, however, Nigel could not bring himself to hate Snape. He didn’t exactly love him, but on the other hand, Nigel had grown to have a deep respect for the man. Snape had taken much of his own personal time to do something he clearly didn’t enjoy, yet he didn’t seem to complain. And while he was hard on Nigel when he made mistakes, Nigel could detect a gleam of pride in Snape’s black eyes whenever Nigel did something well, which had become more frequent.

After a while, Nigel began to take Harry’s constant barbs as Snape’s expense with a grain of salt, but he wasn’t just sticking up for Snape to be a nice guy. He defended Snape because he started to understand Snape more deeply, as a man with extraordinary connection to the forces of magic and with an almost fragile sensitivity to the world around him, both the visible and the invisible. Sneering and rapaciously pompous as Snape was, Nigel found these qualities almost charming, as if the professor were wearing this attitude like an elaborate garment, a suit of armour perhaps, carefully wrought, assiduously donned, jealously guarded.

The third week of December, Nigel received an owl at his bedroom window one freezing evening. Nigel opened his window just long enough to admit the owl, which had a note in its shivering beak. He took the note and opened it up:

_Dear Mr. Chaucer,_

_Warm greetings on this chilly day! I hope you are weathering the snow better than I!_

_I am writing you this note to invite you to our annual end of term feast, and as our guest of honour. At the start of every school year, the new students are sorted into their houses, where they live for their entire time at Hogwarts. As you did not begin your lessons with Professor Snape until after the beginning of the term, you did not have an opportunity to be sorted._

_From what I hear from Professor Snape, you are more than ready to be included in the full life of the school. Being sorted into one of our four houses, while you will not actually live in the house, will provide you with a greater attachment to the school, and with a set group of supportive friends and acquaintances that you will have for the rest of your life._

_Please return your reply by owl, or simply tell Professor Snape on Saturday._

_Sincerely,_

_Professor Albus Dumbledore  
Headmaster, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

* * * * *

_Dear Professor Dumbledore,  
I’ll be happy to attend the feast. I look forward to being sorted!_

_See you soon!_

_Sincerely,  
Nigel Chaucer_


	10. A Special Sorting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Nigel came forward nervously, unsure of the full implications of this sorting, yet determined all the same to see it through. The stool stood before him on the dais, the tatty old hat on top. Nigel approached apprehensively, excitedly, with a tinge of nausea sloshing around in his stomach, creeping halfway up his throat. Professor McGonagall picked up the hat and motioned for Nigel to sit, which he did. And then it happened. As soon as the hat was placed on his head, Nigel felt like he was receiving one of those looks he often got from Snape, like he was being x-rayed._
> 
> _And then the hat spoke._

The Great Hall had never looked more beautiful. The walls were lined with the biggest Christmas trees Nigel had ever seen in his life, and snow flurried over their heads from the enchanted ceiling in graceful wafts, dissipating in the candlelight. The tables were practically bursting with every kind of food imaginable—roasted chicken, honey ham, potatoes of every sort, fresh vegetables, piping hot rolls, and even more. The mood was electric that night, filled with anticipation about which house would get the Instant Wizard.

The Hufflepuffs were ready to accept him and make him an immediate friend. They were even ready to place an extra bed in their boys’ dorm in case Nigel ever wanted to stay over for a night. In fact, Justin Fitch-Fletchley was ready to give up his bed should Nigel decide to move in. The Ravenclaws heard about how accomplished Nigel had become as a wizard in such a short amount of time and reckoned that he must be some sort of genius. The Slytherins were reluctant to accept him at all—he wasn’t exactly a mudblood, and he wasn’t a half-blood, and he wasn’t a muggle. They figured that if they could convince each other that Nigel was somehow a pureblood, then he might not be too repulsive, even if he was friendly with Potter.

The Gryffindors felt sure that Nigel would be sorted into their house. After all, they all liked him and got along with him very well. All of Nigel’s friends, or most of them anyway, were Gryffindors, so it just seemed natural that he would join them. Ron had talked for days about all the fun they could have pulling pranks on Malfoy and the rest of the Slytherins should Nigel be sorted properly. Plus, as far as Hermione surmised, he seemed to possess the qualities of a Gryffindor.

“Think of how much courage it took him to recover from such a terrible ordeal,” she told an eager Gryffindor audience that evening.

“Sure, Nigel,” Neville chimed in. “I mean, I don’t think I ever could have gone through all that stuff you did and come out of it alright.”

Harry laughed but said nothing. Nigel blushed.

Finally, once everyone was seated and ready to dive into their feast, Professor Dumbledore stood up and quieted down the chattering crowd.

“Before we begin our splendid feast tonight, I wish to have our newest pupil, Mr. Nigel Chaucer, please rise and be recognised by your fellow students.”

A red-faced Nigel rose from the Gryffindor table to wild applause from all corners—except from the Slytherins, most of whom yawned and grumbled and waited for the spectacle to be over so they could eat.

Dumbledore continued. “Please, Mr. Chaucer, before you sit again, you must come forward to be sorted into your new house. These students will become your colleagues, your confidantes, your closest friends as you continue your education here at Hogwarts. After you are sorted, you will join the members of your house, and I am sure they will welcome you with open arms.”

Again, more wild applause from the Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. Scattered, polite clapping from a Slytherin minority. Draco Malfoy grunted audibly. Harry threw him a dangerous glare, but Dumbledore took it all in stride, waving for Nigel to approach.

Nigel came forward nervously, unsure of the full implications of this sorting, yet determined all the same to see it through. The stool stood before him on the dais, the tatty old hat on top. Nigel approached apprehensively, excitedly, with a tinge of nausea sloshing around in his stomach, creeping halfway up his throat. Professor McGonagall picked up the hat and motioned for Nigel to sit, which he did. And then it happened. As soon as the hat was placed on his head, Nigel felt like he was receiving one of those looks he often got from Snape, like he was being x-rayed.

And then the hat spoke.

“SLYTHERIN!”

Without thinking, a mutual cry of “NO!” issued at once, both from Nigel and from Draco Malfoy.

“Oh yes, Mr. Chaucer. Yes, Mr. Malfoy,” Dumbledore replied jovially. “And now, if you would be so kind, Mr. Malfoy, to make room for the newest member of Slytherin House.”

Nigel, still covered with embarrassment for his outburst, made his tremulously toward the narrow vacant space at the Slytherin table, right next to Draco Malfoy and a raven-haired girl with sad eyes and a sumptuous pout on her full, red lips. He caught Harry’s eye as he went—they shrugged at each other, mutually flummoxed by what had just happened.

Draco took instant command of the situation, recovering from his own outburst. The first thing he did as Nigel sat down was to offer his hand.

“Welcome to Slytherin, Chaucer,” he said portentously. “Glad to have another pureblood in our ranks.”

Pureblood? Well, OK, if that’s what Draco wanted to think, who was Nigel to argue? Nigel didn’t quite know what to say.

Nigel shook his hand, noticing that Draco’s trembled as much as his own. Draco quickly introduced Nigel around the table to all his friends—Crabbe, Goyle, Zabini, Nott. The girl was called Pansy Parkinson, and Nigel was immediately drawn to her intense eyes and luscious mouth. He barely knew what to say to her. Another, slightly heavy girl sat across from them—Goyle introduced her as Millie. And just as quickly, Draco had commanded Nigel’s attention, telling him all the do’s and don’ts of being a Slytherin.

_Do push your limits as far as you can in all situations._

_Do not cozy up to anyone from Gryffindor house._

_Do take advantage of Professor Snape’s considerable background in dark magic._

_Do not mention the Dark Lord by his name._

_Do take the last piece of toast on the plate at breakfast, especially if there is a long line behind you, and especially if those in line are Gryffindors._

_Do not allow anyone to get the better of you, especially not someone from Gryffindor house._

Nigel scowled. “Why the antipathy toward Gryffindor?” he asked.

Everyone laughed, as if he had just told a raucous joke. Nigel puzzled.

“Listen, Chaucer, I’ll be straight with you, as you’re the new boy on the block,” Draco said diplomatically. “It’s a bit of old Hogwarts tradition, you see. Gyffindors have been trying to prove their superiority over Slytherins for centuries, and year after year, they prove themselves wrong.”

Crabbe guffawed. Goyle and Nott joined in. Nigel got the idea that none of these gargantuan thugs had any idea of what Draco had just said. He missed the Gryffindors terribly. At least they were relaxed and jovial. He watched jealously as they all laughed at Ron’s jokes and Seamus’ funny faces. To the contrary, this Slytherin lot seemed like overbearing posers, a quality that Nigel particularly detested. He wondered glumly how the Sorting Hat could have gotten it so wrong.

That Saturday, he put the question to Professor Snape. Nigel reasoned that as bad as he felt at being separated from his Gryffindor friends, at least Snape was the Slytherin Head of House. Snape scoffed at the question.

“You act like being in Slytherin is a death sentence, Mr. Chaucer!” he said incredulously.

“I don’t mean…”

“One of the hallmarks of being a Slytherin is self-reliance and individual strength. Some people accuse us of being ruthless bigots.”

Nigel nodded. “So I’ve heard.”

Snape narrowed his eyes slightly. “I’m sure. Remember, Mr. Chaucer, that there is always a reverse side to every vice. Yes, Slytherin has a long history of dark wizards, but it also has a history of sacrifice, dedication, hard work and even a little humility. People will undoubtedly tell you that all of the Dark Lord’s servants are from Slytherin House…”

“But they are!”

Snape threw him a fierce look. “What did I tell you about interrupting?”

“Sorry.”

“You’re actually wrong, Mr. Chaucer, at least in part. I happen to know that one of his most devoted servants, in fact, was in Gryffindor.”

“You’re kidding!” Nigel replied, aghast.

Snape rolled his eyes impatiently. “Yes I know,” he said sarcastically. “Far be it from me to suggest that not everyone in Gryffindor is a saint, however, fact is fact. That, our house history and indeed that of our founder need not distress you. There are many more Slytherins who did not ally themselves with the Dark Lord. There are others, in fact, who work against the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters.”

Nigel nearly asked Snape if he was one of these, but he stopped himself, not wanting to incur his wrath again.

“Just remember that the Sorting Hat put you with us for a reason, and I believe it was quite right. In fact, as far as I can remember, the Sorting Hat has never made an error in its judgement. Considering your own background and the challenges placed before you in life, Mr. Chaucer, I’d say you have everything it takes to do quite well in Slytherin.”

Nigel chuckled at that. “That’s funny. I thought my past challenges would have made me a good fit for Gryffindor.”

“The Gryffindors may have their unique…virtues…however, they also lack the mental state and shrewdness that is too often necessary to survive in a very rough world. As much as we would like to think of people in an ideal light, you and I both know that even the best people are wont to disappoint us. A Slytherin recognises this human weakness and knows how to transform it into strength. That involves brutal honesty with self and with others. That is what drives me to speak as I do with you, rather than allowing you to flounder in the myth of your own importance. The moment you realise your own basic inadequacy, Mr. Chaucer, is the beginning of your enlightenment.”

All Christmas long, Nigel pondered on that statement, making every attempt to decipher its meaning. He was pretty sure it was something profound, but he wasn’t sure if he was up to the philosophical challenge. Then again, Nigel reasoned, if I’m going to be a Slytherin the rest of my life, I’d better gather up the determination to figure it out.

The snow kept Nigel indoors most of the holiday, where he spent much time entertaining various visiting relatives, including Aunt Susan and Uncle Kit, plus his maternal grandparents, fresh from a sunny holiday in Florida, and his cousin, Tony, the one Nigel visited at the time of his accident. Tony was particularly happy to see his cousin again, remembering that the last time he had seen Nigel was back in August. Nigel looked healthy, strong, vigorous once again.

No one mentioned that Nigel was a wizard. Nigel didn’t mention it, either.

As he watched his relatives come and go with stacks of presents, fruitcake, sherry and decorations, Nigel wondered at the mystery of the human condition. He hadn’t meant to become so introspective, but he was still inspired to solve the mystery of Snape’s words: “The moment you realise your own basic inadequacy, Mr. Chaucer, is the beginning of your enlightenment.” That just didn’t sound right, but on the other hand, it did. Nigel asked his father what he thought it meant.

“Sounds like bloody rubbish,” Mr. Chaucer said, besotted with too much eggnog. “Did one of those…you know…say that to you?”

“My tutor, Professor Snape.”

“Oh yes, the man in black. Sounds like ruddy hogwash to me, son. Then again, I’m not philosophical.”

After seeing a movie with Tony and Clive, Nigel and the others went to their favourite hamburger restaurant for a late night snack. Together they ordered piles of chips and fried cheese sticks and other assorted greasy snacks, which they tore into like wild beasts. Nigel told them about Snape’s words to him.

“What do you guys think it means?” Nigel asked them.

They both puzzled for a few moments. Then a few moments more. Clive let a bit of sauce slither down his chin, spotting the new jumper he had gotten for Christmas the day before.

“Sounds like tosh to me,” Clive said. “I don’t like to think that hard.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Jimmy joked, poking him in the ribs. Nigel threw a chip at him.

Finally, Tony spoke up. “I think it’s one of those paradoxes, sort of spiritual. Our priest said something like that to us a few weeks ago, quoted Dante and the Bible. He said something about how we’re all basically weak, and once we see that, we can open ourselves to God and become strong again.”

“That’s great,” Nigel said, “but that’s religion. I don’t think Professor Snape meant anything religious by it.”

“Who’s Professor Snape?” Clive asked.

Shit. Nigel forgot not to mention that. “Oh, he’s this guy I know. He’s sort of a wise man. But not religious.”

Still, Tony had a point. He wanted to return to Hogwarts to talk more to Snape about this, but the Chaucers were traveling to York to visit some friends who hadn’t seen Nigel since the accident. More relatives, more accounts of his long recovery…more secrets. Nigel would have to wait, therefore, for his enlightenment as a Slytherin to arrive it all its promised glory.


	11. The Boy on the Side of the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, things are settling down for Nigel. He's hitting his stride with his magic lessons with Snape, and his physical recovery is coming along well. School has resumed its regular pace as well, so it was all too strange for Nigel to see Draco Malfoy walk into Nigel's favorite after school muggle hangout. What was going on?

As lessons resumed in January for Nigel, life suddenly became extremely busy. He had essays to write for literature, maths homework, a lab report for chemistry, plus a packet of new spells and charms to master for Snape. He had caught up with the other sixth-years, and in fact, was already ahead of them in nonverbal spells. Nigel had also become rather adept at potion making, which puzzled him. Nigel was notoriously dangerous in his mother’s kitchen, once even setting the microwave on fire in an attempt to cook a potato. The one and only time Nigel dared to compare Potions to cookery resulted in a loss of ten points for Slytherin and a long essay.

Unbeknownst to Snape or anyone else at Hogwarts, Nigel acquired a new ability. For some weeks now, totally on the sly, he had practiced apparating, reading carefully the precautions and dangers of getting splinched. By the end of his holiday, Nigel had successfully apparated to the cinema, Honeyduke’s, the cricket pitch at school, and his grandparents’ back garden. Though he had rapidly improved with apparation, he wasn’t ready to put this new ability on display for his parents—they might very well throw him out of the family, or it felt to Nigel.

He was also pretty sure Snape would throw a fit if he ever found out about this…independent study…but on the other hand, Nigel decided that he needed a bit of fun. No splinching yet. One time he apparated out of his left shoe, but otherwise, he had been pretty successful. He left a freckle behind once, too—then again, Nigel never did like that freckle on his chin. He secretly congratulated himself that none of the Slytherins in his year had learned how to apparate yet. At least he was superior in something. The thought of Crabbe and Goyle attempting to disapparate amused him to no end—they were sure to leave a limb behind, if not more!

The thought struck Nigel funny. Perhaps he really was a good fit for Slytherin.

On top of everything else, Nigel also still had to go to physical therapy, though not as frequently as before. His body had grown stronger since his return home, and most of his therapy sessions consisted of physical conditioning exercises, weight training and cardio endurance exercises, to build up his lungs and his heart. Gone were the days of excruciating physical therapy sessions that more resembled torture than health care. He still harboured chilling memories of those harrowing days, complete with his crying out in unbearable pain as the physiotherapist reworked his injured musculature. In time, though, as he cooperated with his doctors, Nigel found that he no longer needed a cane, which overjoyed him. When the weather permitted, he had begun to ride his bicycle to school, and sometimes to Hogwarts on Saturdays.

Over and over, Mrs. Chaucer cautioned him, “Be careful on the road.” Nigel understood.

Wednesday afternoon, 4:00, McDougal’s Best Burgers. Nigel, Jimmy, Clive and Robert sat in a back corner booth, snacking on bacon cheeseburgers, chips and cokes. They had their maths books and tangles of notes spread out across the table as well, as they revised for tomorrow’s calculus exam. As top student in the class, all attention and cries for help were directed at Nigel, and he did his best to help his friends with their maths troubles.

“Hey, Caroline was asking about you again, Nige,” said Robert.

“How old is your sister now?” Clive asked.

“Fifteen just last week.”

“So how ‘bout it, Nige?” Jimmy joked. “You going for her?”

“Yeah, you sexy beast!” Clive added. “Go on, you can pull her in a second!”

Nigel rolled his eyes in mock impatience. “Come on, guys, she’s too young!”

“She’s fifteen, you’re sixteen!” Jimmy said.

“Sixteen and a half!”

“Oh! Well forget it then! We don’t want the cops coming after you!” Clive joked. “I guess your sister’s safe for now, Robert! Better keep an eye on her so she doesn’t get molested by this old perv!”

They all laughed. As they went back to their studies, the bell on the front door tinkled. Nigel ignored it, but Jimmy glanced over. What he saw made him snigger.

“Nice cape,” he whispered to the others as the tall blond boy took a seat near the window and ordered. “One of those Goth freaks!” 

Robert rolled his eyes in mirth as he glanced at the tall blond boy in a flowing black cape.

Nigel finally glanced over, and to his surprise and horror, recongised Draco Malfoy, sipping casually on a cup of tea. Draco’s face looked intent, a little preoccupied. Nigel thought for a moment about what to do. Should he ignore Draco altogether, publicly acknowledge him by saying hello, or wave him over to join his muggle friends. Nigel decided on the second option.

“Back in a minute,” he said, standing up. He strolled over to Draco’s table and sat down opposite.

Draco looked just as surprised and horrified to see Nigel, in public and in front of all sorts of strange muggles that probably thought his robes were some sort of fancy dress. He nearly bobbled his teacup.

“Hey there!” Nigel said, trying to sound as casual as possible. “What brings you here of all places?”

Draco briefly glowered at him. “I’ve been here before, Chaucer,” he said defencively.

That didn’t sound right. “Aren’t you supposed to be up at school?”

“I have a meeting. None of your business, alright, Chaucer?” His voice sounded crisp, professional, distant.

Nigel shrugged. “I don’t care if you’re here. I just thought you didn’t like being around…you know…muggles. Say, do you want to meet my friends?”

They both looked over at Jimmy, Clive and Robert, who waved wildly at the two of them. Draco suppressed a sneer. “No thanks, Chaucer. I don’t have time to mix with muggles today. Sorry.”

“Right, you’ll just sit in a muggle café,” Nigel shot back.

“Sod off,” Draco snarled.

Nigel stood up. “Well, I guess I’ll see you Saturday.”

As Nigel returned to his friends, the three of them laughed and snorted loudly.

“Who’s that?” Clive asked not so quietly.

“Shut up,” Nigel hissed. “He’s just someone I know.”

“He doesn’t go to our school. What’s with the cape?” Jimmy asked.

“It’s just something he wears.”

“He looks like a freak! Like a fugitive from a pirate movie!” Robert laughed.

Nigel knew Draco was listening in. “Come on, guys, let’s get back to these equations. I don’t want you to embarrass me with low marks again…”

But Nigel was burning with curiosity. What was Draco Malfoy doing in town? Why had he never seen him there before? Was he spying on him? Finding out about his muggle life and friends? Nigel shuddered to think what sort of havoc Draco could bring to Jimmy, Clive and Robert. 

As he sat in class all that Thursday, the question kept coming back to Nigel. He was so distracted by Draco’s unwelcome intrusion into his muggle life that he had a hard time keeping focused on his maths exam that afternoon. It really was none of his business, especially if Draco really did have a meeting. But what sort of meeting would a muggle-phobic wizard have in a muggle town? Was someone picking him up and taking him elsewhere? Was he up to no good or was all perfectly innocent? Did Snape know about his protégé’s meeting? 

Nigel decided that it was in everyone’s best interests not to bring up the subject that Saturday. Besides, he was too busy learning a very advanced and tricky potion. As Nigel carefully cut the asphodel root into paper thin slices for the potion, Snape stood over him, assiduously watching his technique. So far, no comments, which was a good sign. One by one, Nigel placed each delicate slice on the surface of the potion, every thirty seconds. Still no comment from Snape.

“And now?” Snape prompted him.

“I let it sit for seven minutes.”

“Correct. And then?”

“I use a silver ladle, which I dip slowly down the exact centre of the potion, agitate the ladle four times from the bottom, and then slowly bring it back up.”

Snape nodded, suppressing an approving grin. “And then?”

“I bring it to a boil until the potion turns a soft pink. And then I remove it from the fire and place it in a bath of ice water.”

“And how should it smell when it’s finished?”

“Like sandalwood,” Nigel replied coolly.

Snape nodded again as Nigel grabbed the ladle and continued with his process. As he agitated the potion, it turned from lavender to rose and on the last shake of the ladle, to a medium pink. Just then, he pulled up the ladle carefully, and poked the fire with his wand so that in a few minutes, the now boiling potion turned a soft shade of pink. The pleasant odour of sandalwood emanated from it. Nigel lifted the cauldron off the fire and transferred it gently into an already prepared bath of ice water. Snape transferred a sample of it into a glass vial, corked it and instructed Nigel to wash his hands.

“You did well today, Nigel,” he said as they cleaned up the classroom and put all the ingredients back in the store cupboard.

Nigel beamed. He had come to understand Snape’s own vocabulary of praise. A grunt was never good, but it wasn’t terrible either. It depended on the quality of the grunt. A basso grunt was not a good sign, connoting deep dissatisfaction. But a more tenor-like, quick grunt usually expressed a certain level of concealed esteem. An “mmhmm” meant that he was following directions at a good rate. A suppressed smirk meant that he was particularly pleased. An actual compliment—almost unheard of. Nigel knew that he had impressed Snape in a manner almost too much for words.

Before he left for home that night, Nigel stopped by the Great Hall for a snack and a chance to sit down and relax. Not too many people were there—a few Hufflepuffs sat playing wizard chess, while a group of Ravenclaws went over some notes for what sounded like Advanced Transfiguration. Ginny and Dean Thomas sat at the Gryffindor table—they waved to Nigel as he passed on to the Slytherin table. Nigel surreptitiously waved back then plopped down next to Pansy Parkinson as she polished her fingernails bright red.

“What’s up?” Nigel asked casually. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her pouty red lips.

She sighed lazily and batted her long eyelashes at him nonchalantly. “Oh, not much. Did you have a good lesson today?”

“Great. I actually got a compliment from Snape.”

Pansy raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Impressive. He never compliments me. Only Draco.”

“Where is the blond prince, anyway?”

Pansy shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him for a couple of days. I guess he’s busy. He never tells me anything any more, other than to shut up.” She capped her nail polish bottle and vanished it.

That didn’t sound right. Draco was always around, or so it seemed. He was hard to miss with all that white blond hair and his aggressive, surly attitude. Of course, Nigel was only at Hogwarts on Saturdays, so really, he had no idea how often Draco left Hogwarts or how many meetings he went to or whether his encounter with him the other day was a mere coincidence. Nigel decided to keep silent about it entirely. Besides, he suddenly became distracted by the scent of violets. He decided to take a calculated risk, in the absence of Draco Malfoy. Maybe he was so busy with meetings now that, well, maybe Pansy needed a little male attention. If that be so, Nigel was ready to oblige. Frequently.

“Hey, Pansy,” Nigel said, feeling brave, “have you ever been to the cinema?”

“Muggle cinema? Not hardly,” she replied with a sniff.

“It’s just that there’s a really good film playing in town right now, and you might like it.”

“No thanks. Draco and I have plans when he returns. Sorry.”

So much for that.

Nigel longed to take her in his arms and kiss her passionately. He couldn’t imagine that Draco was very good to her—tenderness was not exactly his forte. It didn’t seem so anyway. Pansy sat so close to him, their elbows just grazing each other, the scent of her delicate perfume still transfixing his senses, and all he had to do was move his hand a half an inch to touch hers. But no. Nigel held back, realising that meddling with Draco Malfoy’s girl could be very bad for one’s health. He began to regret asking her to the cinema at all. What was he thinking?

A while later, after Pansy had gone off to bed and he had beaten Blaise Zabini three times at wizard chess, the hour grew too late, and Nigel headed home. It was pitch black and quite cold outside, and Nigel gathered his cloak around him tightly as he walked. The freezing air made his joints ache. He took out his wand and poked the tip out from his cloak.

“Lumos,” he said as the wand tip lit up against the black night.

Everything was quiet and still. Not even the owls were out that night, which was odd, or so Nigel had come to think. The only sound he could hear, in fact, was that of his own footsteps crunching along the path. What was that? Nothing. Nigel kept walking. What? That sounded like a groan. Yes, it had to be. But where? Nigel walked on more slowly, his wand completely out, searching the trees and shrubs along the road for some injured animal. Another sound, another groan. Was that sobbing? Pain? Anguish? Nigel panicked as he realised that the sounds he heard were coming from a person.

Not knowing what to expect, Nigel rushed forward, searching frantically for the person in distress. The voice was male, whimpering, tormented, suffering terribly. Nigel half expected to see a bloody mess or broken bones or even a gunshot victim.

But he didn’t expect to see a frantic, distraught, wounded Draco Malfoy.


	12. Healing Malfoy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Draco blearily opened his eyes and looked about, dazed and confused._
> 
> _Nigel grabbed him and pulled him to his feet again, dusting the snow from Draco’s robes. “Come on,” he said. Let’s go.”_
> 
> _With some difficulty, Nigel braced the half conscious and still babbling Draco against himself, pulling Draco’s arm around his own shoulders, and led him around the bend and toward his house._
> 
> _“Mum!” Nigel called out. He could smell freshly popped popcorn, and he knew that his parents were watching telly in their bedroom. “Mum!” Nigel called again, a little louder this time._
> 
> _A startled Mrs. Chaucer met them at the top of the stairs. “Oh my goodness!” she cried. “What happened?”_
> 
> _“This is someone from Hogwarts. His name is Draco Malfoy. He’s really badly hurt, Mum. He needs help.”_

He was out of his mind, exhausted, mad with fright. Draco babbled nonsensically, panting, out of breath. Spotting Nigel in the dark, he stumbled forward, pleading, terrified, in a complete panic.

“No, they’re coming!” he raved to Nigel, grabbing him by the lapels. “They’re here! Get off the road! They’ll see you! They sense you’re here! I know it! I feel it! Dammit!” 

A trickle of blood ran from Draco’s broken nose, slithering down his face and neck. His eyes were badly bruised and swollen almost shut, and he had a long slash across his left cheek. As Nigel tried to assess the situation, he saw that Draco’s sweater was torn and, from what he could tell, singed along the tear. A horrible, sickening feeling washed over Nigel, and he grabbed the frenzied Malfoy by the arms and ushered him into the shadows.

Draco flinched violently and shook Nigel off.

“Don’t touch me!” he cried out, his eyes wild. “What do you want? Get away from me!”

“Calm down, Malfoy,” Nigel said, trying to be as soothing as he could.

Draco paced madly, and when Nigel reached out to take his arm again, Draco took a swing at him, missing Nigel’s nose by a fraction of an inch. The force of the swing sent Draco to his knees, where he balled himself up and began to whimper like a five year-old.

“No, please,” he said in a frenetic whisper. “No, I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please!”

Completely perplexed with what to do with his crazed fellow Slytherin, Nigel squatted down next to Draco and tried to touch him on the shoulder. This time, Draco didn’t flinch. Instead, he threw himself into Nigel’s arms and embraced him desperately.

“Help me,” he sobbed. “Please.”

Nigel loosened Draco’s grip on him and helped him to his feet. “Can I get you back to the school?” he asked.

“No! No! I can’t go back!”

“OK, OK. Look, my house is just around the bend.”

Draco looked apprehensive.

“It’s OK, Malfoy, I swear. We can get you cleaned up and you can even stay the night.”

Draco looked at him blankly and seemed to nod yes. But just then, he wavered on his feet. His cut up knees buckled, and like a house of cards, he collapsed silently, almost gracefully, to the cold ground. 

“Shit!” Nigel muttered, panicking all over again. He squatted down next to Draco and shook him, hoping he wasn’t dead. Nothing. No response at all. Nigel’s heart pounded in his ears as he shook Draco again. “Come on, Malfoy, wake up!” He smacked Draco’s cheek. Draco grunted a little. Nigel smacked him again, harder this time. “Malfoy, come on! Wake up!” 

Another groan. Finally, Draco blearily opened his eyes and looked about, dazed and confused.

Nigel grabbed him and pulled him to his feet again, dusting the snow from Draco’s robes. “Come on,” he said. Let’s go.”

With some difficulty, Nigel braced the half conscious and still babbling Draco against himself, pulling Draco’s arm around his own shoulders, and led him around the bend and toward his house. When they reached the cottage, Nigel nodded at the front door, which obediently flew open. The rush of warm air from inside brought fleeting relief to Nigel as he hauled Malfoy across the threshold, into the cozy house.

“Mum!” Nigel called out. He could smell freshly popped popcorn, and he knew that his parents were watching telly in their bedroom. “Mum!” Nigel called again, a little louder this time. “Come on, Malfoy, I’m taking you to bed,” he said to Draco, helping him mount the stairs.

A startled Mrs. Chaucer met them at the top of the stairs. “Oh my goodness!” she cried. “What happened?”

“This is someone from Hogwarts. His name is Draco Malfoy. He’s really badly hurt, Mum. He needs help.”

She took Draco’s other arm and helped Nigel steer him into Nigel’s room, where they let him collapse like a sack of flour onto Nigel’s bed. While Mrs. Chaucer ran to get some first aid supplies, Nigel pulled off Draco’s shoes and then his cloak. Draco shivered violently, suddenly growing deathly pale. A cold sweat poured down his face. Nigel panicked, terrified that Draco might actually die right there in his bed. He threw a blanket over Draco to get him warm.

“Mum! Hurry!” he called frantically. “It’s okay, Malfoy. You’re going to be okay.”

“I’m coming!” Both Mrs. and Mr. Chaucer dashed into the room with water, ice, alcohol, cotton, bandages, a huge roll of gauze, even an arm sling. When they saw the deplorable condition of the young wizard, they balked. “The poor dear,” Mrs. Chaucer said, shocked by the sight.

“This is way beyond anything we can do,” Mr. Chaucer said. “The boy needs a hospital.”

“No, he needs Snape,” Nigel said. “Mum, Dad, if you could sort of keep Draco comfortable? Just keep him calm and keep him in this bed. I’m going to go and fetch Professor Snape. He’ll know what to do. I won’t be long.”

Nigel hated leaving his parents alone with Draco in such a state, but there wasn’t any other way. He dashed downstairs and in a flash, apparated to the gates of Hogwarts. The first thing he did was to send up red sparks with his wand. Nigel waited a minute, but there was no response. He sent them up again, and then pointed his wand to his throat.

“Sonorus!” he said, to amplify his voice. “HAGRID! I NEED HELP! I NEED PROFESSOR SNAPE, HAGRID! HELP!” Nigel’s voice boomed across the night air like a missile. 

The sonorous charm worked more effectively than Nigel intended. Not only did Hagrid come running to the gates to admit Nigel, but McGonagall, Filch, Madame Hooch and luckily, Professor Snape.

“What is it?” McGonagall said, angry at the intrusion. “What on earth are you doing here at this hour, Chaucer?”

“Professor, it’s Draco Malfoy!” Nigel said to Snape. “He’s been badly injured, beaten up, I think!”

“Where is he?” Snape asked furiously.

“At my house.”

“You left him alone there?”

“No! My parents are watching him.”

“Oh my gods!” Snape said, outraged. “Come with me, Chaucer.”

Together, Snape and Nigel rushed to the Potions store room.

“How did you get here so quickly, Chaucer?” Snape asked dangerously.

Nigel’s mouth ran dry. “I…uh…well, I…apparated,” Nigel confessed.

Snape glowered at him. “We’ll deal with that later,” he seethed. “What happened to Mr. Malfoy?”

“Like I said, he’s all beaten up and cut and burned. He’s out of his mind, sir, babbling nonsense about how they’re coming for him and they know where he is.”

“Did he say who they were?”

“No. He did say something about cruciatus.”

“Shit,” Snape muttered under his breath. “Alright, Chaucer, go into the store room and grab three bottles of the potion you made today. Malfoy’s big and I think he’ll need quite a lot of it. Please tell me you didn’t try muggle remedies.”

“Well, mum wanted to at first, but when she saw how beat up he was, she wanted to call emergency services.”

“She didn’t, did she?”

“No. I told her I was bringing you.”

With all the bottles and vials of various potions in a leather sack, Snape and Nigel rushed out of the castle and back out of the gates.

“Take my arm, Chaucer. We’re apparating. Together this time.”

Nigel obeyed. In a flash, they were in Nigel’s parlour. He took Snape by the arm and led him upstairs to where Draco lay, still moaning and babbling and crying. Snape blanched when he saw the condition Draco was in. On the other hand, Mr. and Mrs. Chaucer were equally perturbed by the sudden arrival of this daunting man in black, flowing, pristine robes. Mr. Chaucer held out a hand.

“I’m Nigel’s father. This is my wife, Lucinda.”

“Mum, Dad,” Nigel said, “this is Professor Severus Snape. He’s been giving me lessons these last few months.”

“My pleasure,” Snape replied courteously. “I apologise for this intrusion into your lovely home. How is Mr. Malfoy?”

“The poor boy is in terrible shape,” Mr. Chaucer said. “He’s been moaning about his mother and about no more crucio for the last several minutes.”

“Right.” Snape set down his bag and took off his traveling cloak. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you both to leave us for now,” he said to Mr. and Mrs. Chaucer. “Whatever you might hear, please do not come in this room. This is going to be rough.”

Mr. and Mrs. Chaucer nodded. “Please let us know if you need anything else,” Mrs. Chaucer said tremulously. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Chaucer, however I believe I have everything that is necessary.” Snape turned to Nigel, giving him a hard look. “Nigel, I’ll need your help with this.”

“Right, sir.”

When they were alone, Snape threw the blankets off of Draco and began to lift up his sweater. “Pick him up by the shoulders, Chaucer. We need to get this off him.”

Draco was heavier than he looked—though he was thin, his shoulders were broad and strong. As he heaved Draco’s muscular frame toward himself and off the bed, Nigel noticed a series of bruises and scars on Draco’s back. Snape pulled the sweater over Draco’s blond head and tossed it on the floor, and together, they laid him back carefully on the mound of pillows. Snape carefully inspected Draco’s naked torso, poking and pressing the dark and deep bruises and lacerations on his body. Without hesitation, Snape grabbed one of the bottles from his bag and a thick cloth from Mrs. Chaucer’s first aid kit. He saturated the cloth with the pink fluid from the bottle. Nigel could still detect the scent of sandalwood.

“Alright, Chaucer,” Snape said. “This is going to get ugly. I need you to hold Malfoy down by the shoulders, hard, so he doesn’t thrash about too much. I’m going to sit on his legs.”

Nigel blanched. His mouth went dry. “Al…alright, sir.” He placed cautionary hands on Draco’s broad shoulders and braced himself.

“Don’t just touch him, Chaucer. Hold him down.”

Nigel obeyed.

Snape unfolded the wet cloth so that it was a sheet, and then he straddled Draco’s legs. “Ready?” he said to Nigel.

Nigel gulped and nodded. He pressed down on Draco’s shoulders.

With that, Snape pressed the cloth to Draco’s chest and abdomen. The reaction was almost instantaneous. Draco let out a dreadful shriek of pain as the potion sank into his skin, his cuts and bruises. His body jerked and twitched in agony, making it hard for Nigel to keep a hold on him.

“Hold him!” Snape ordered.

“I’m trying! He’s strong!”

“Hold him!” Snape ordered again, sitting tight on Draco’s legs to keep him from leaping out of the bed.

Draco cried and whimpered like an injured animal, tears pouring down his face and into his sweat-soaked hair. For ten excruciating minutes, Snape and Nigel held down the struggling, wounded wizard until finally, at long last, he stopped fighting and fell unconscious. Equally exhausted, Snape and Nigel loosened their grip on him and stood beside him, watching him carefully. Snape peeled the cloth off of Draco’s chest and tossed it into the dustbin.

“He’s not…”

“No. He’s alive. Just asleep.”

“Why did the potion do that to him, sir?”

Snape didn’t answer right away. He looked again at Draco’s injuries, opened his eyelids and peered into his eyes, felt his forehead. Snape smoothed Draco’s hair a little, and turned to face Nigel.

“Let’s leave him alone for a while, let him sleep it off.”

Downstairs, Mr. and Mrs. Chaucer greeted them with alarmed stares. “What went on up there?” Mr. Chaucer asked, his voice troubled. “What was all that screaming?”

Snape and Nigel collapsed onto the settee and caught their breath.

“Would you like some sherry, Professor?” Mrs. Chaucer asked. “Perhaps something stronger? A whiskey?”

“That would be most welcome,” Snape replied. “Mr. Malfoy was badly injured in a fight and suffered many internal injuries.”

“Poor thing,” Mrs. Chaucer said, handing him a glass of whiskey.

Snape took a long drink before he continued. “Well I don’t know about that. Anyway, the potion I gave him healed those injuries—unfortunately, the process is very painful.”

“Will he be alright?” Mrs. Chaucer asked.

“Oh yes. He’ll be asleep for a few hours, and then I’ll be able to take him back to the school. He’ll be in some pain for a few days, but he’ll be fine.”

“Who would do that to a young boy?” Mrs. Chaucer asked.

“Some very bad wizards, I’m afraid to say. Some of the worst in wizardkind.” Snape finished his whiskey in another gulp. Mr. Chaucer poured him a second glass.

“You’re welcome to stay in our guest room for as long as you need, Professor,” Mr. Chaucer said, pouring himself a second glass.

“You’re very kind to keep him here,” Snape said. “Nigel saved his life by bringing him here.”

Nigel blushed. “Well, it was closer is all.”

“How is he doing with his lessons?” Mrs. Chaucer asked. “Is he a good student?”

Snape cracked the barest of grins. “Your son is an extraordinary wizard, Mrs. Chaucer. He has learned more in a few months than many learn in six years. And I suspect he has learned a few new things that I haven’t yet taught him,” Snape added dangerously. “Isn’t that so, Mr. Chaucer?”

Nigel stared straight ahead. “Uh…well, I…suppose. Maybe a couple of things.” His voice faded.

But Snape’s glower suddenly softened. “I do have one question for you, Nigel. I noticed a box in your room, a carved box with Eve and the apple and the serpent on it.”

“Oh yeah. My grandparents gave that to me when I got home from London.”

“And where did they get it?”

“It’s an old family heirloom. Chaucer side.”

“Really? Has it always been in the family?” Snape grew increasingly curious.

“A family ancestor made it,” Mr. Chaucer said. “My great great grandmother.”

“Lydia Prince?” Snape asked.

Nigel gasped. “How did you know that?”

“Because she is my great great grandmother, too.”


	13. Lydia Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Snape tells the story of their common ancestor, Lydia Prince, Nigel is amazed. And when Snape opens up about some details of his past, Nigel isn't sure what to think any more.

Severus Snape drank down his second glass of whiskey and allowed a stunned Mr. Chaucer pour him a third.

“I don’t know how that is even possible,” Mr. Chaucer said, incredulous. “I don’t know of any wizards or magical people in the family at all. We’re about as normal and nonmagical as you can get!”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Snape said diffidently. “To be honest, the Prince family isn’t the best wizarding family in the world. We have a bit of a spotty history when it comes to magic. Lots of squibs in the family Mixed marriages, too.”

“Squibs?” Mrs. Chaucer asked.

“Nonmagic children of magic parents,” Nigel offered.

“Just so,” Snape said. His voice was slow and deliberate. “Lydia Prince, you know, had twelve children. Eight of them were squibs and four were witches and wizards. Six squibs, and both witches died very young. The remaining squibs married muggles, and the two surviving wizards married witches.”

“So some remained pureblooded and the others didn’t?” Nigel asked.

“Precisely.”

“I think the box came from female ancestors until my father inherited it,” Mr. Chaucer said. “And then it came to Nigel after my sister died with no children. In fact, I think my father was the first male in the family to have the box, since he was an only child.”

“Which means that we come from the squib/muggle line of the family history,” Nigel said, a little disappointed.

“It likely explains what’s happened to you, though. You may have had three teaspoons of wizard blood in you,” Snape said. “It could be that the infusion of pure wizard blood after your accident reawakened the magic already within you. It’s hard to say, really, only a vague theory. I feel certain that after the war is over, many wizard scientists will want to study you closely, Nigel.”

“What war?” Mrs. Chaucer asked, taken aback.

“The boy lying upstairs is a victim of the war. All of us are.”

“Are we in danger?” Mrs. Chaucer asked.

“Not likely. Not yet anyway. Nigel may be, though, considering his unique situation. Actually, anyone in the wizarding world is in danger, myself included. That is why it is so important for him to learn as much magic as possible, so that he can defend himself if need be.”

“Does this Dark Lord know about Nigel?” Mr. Chaucer asked.

“I’m sure he does. Nigel has been the object of much curiosity and speculation for months now, and not only among good wizards.”

“What will that mean?”

“It means that Nigel needs to arm himself with the best defence possible, which is what I’ve been teaching him. Considering what a superb wizard he is becoming, I feel fairly confident that he will do very well. He will make the Prince family very proud, I think. Give us a little something to brag about, for once.”

Nigel smiled. “So does that mean we’re cousins seventeen times removed or something?”

“If we were to compare family histories, I’m sure we could figure it out,” Mr. Chaucer said. “I’d be fascinated to know.”

“So what about you, Professor? What of your line of the family? Were your parents witches and wizards?” Nigel asked.

“My mother was a witch. My father was not.”

Nigel puzzled. “I thought that all Slytherins…”

Snape smirked. “Mr. Malfoy wishes that all Slytherins were pureblooded. He likely has deemed you a pureblood.”

Nigel sniggered at that, remembering what Draco had said to him when he was first sorted into Slytherin House.

“Our family, unfortunately, has not always produced the most powerful of wizards. On occasion…”

“I’d say you were pretty powerful, sir. I hear you’re one of the most powerful wizards around.”

“As a boy,” Snape explained, alarmingly candid all of a sudden, “I came to Hogwarts already armed with a wide assortment of spells, including some very dark ones, I admit. My personal situation unfortunately made that necessary. I found it impossible to live as I was with no way to defend myself.”

“Were your parents bad to you?” Nigel asked.

“My father never quite accepted the fact that my mother was a witch. He was one of those who had preconceived notions of what witches and wizards were. His objections to the magical world, in fact, took on a rather violent aspect.” His eyes darkened. “My father tended to take his anger and prejudice out on me.” But just then, Snape narrowed his eyes wickedly. “Until I took matters into my own hands, that is, when I was twelve.”

“What did you do?” Nigel asked, rapt by the tale.

“A little something I created myself. I’d rather not describe it just now. The only backlash was that he turned his violence toward my mother since he was now terrified of me. Despite anything I could do, it became something I was not able to stop. I even offered to give up Hogwarts, but my mother wouldn’t hear of it.”

“How awful,” Mrs. Chaucer said.

“How is she now? Did she leave him?” Mr. Chaucer asked.

“My mother was quite an elegant woman, very refined, but she was not strong, physically or emotionally. Her family was rather well-to-do, in fact, so when she ran off with my muggle father, they were scandalised. And when they learned she was pregnant, they cut her off.”

“So I guess in some ways, wizards and muggles are alike,” Nigel mused.

Snape nodded. “I always urged her to leave him, but she always refused, no matter how he treated her. It confounded me. I simply couldn’t understand why she chose to stay. And then she died a day after I came home from my Fifth Year of study.”

Silence.

“How…” Nigel started.

Snape paused. “I am only telling you this because you are family,” he said with a proud sniff. “This is not to become the stuff of idle gossip, Chaucer. I normally keep my private affairs extremely private. This, however, is an unusual and unexpected development, and so I am willing to share a bit of myself with you, for family’s sake.”

“You have my confidence, sir.”

“Good. My fifth year at Hogwarts was not a good year for me in any respect.”

“Bad marks?”

Snape looked scandalised. “I never received bad marks, Chaucer. Nothing below an O. Ever. But, I didn’t have many friends. In fact, that year I had no friends.”

“How terrible,” Mrs. Chaucer said glumly.

“I wasn’t exactly the most affable person in the world,” Snape admitted. “Not during that particular time of my life anyway.”

“I can’t believe that,” Nigel joked.

“Shut up, Chaucer,” Snape quipped.

“Nigel!” Mr. Chaucer snapped.

“It didn’t help things that I was pursued by a group of bullies, just to make things extra special for me. And they weren’t Slytherins, either.”

“Gryffindors?”

Snape nodded. Nigel could see that his cousin was very uncomfortable telling this story, yet Snape continued. “After enduring continual humiliations at their hands, I was ready to leave Hogwarts altogether and take full advantage of some of my connections outside school.”

“What kept you there?” Nigel asked, now thoroughly absorbed.

“As you know, or perhaps you don’t, Hogwarts students sit their O.W.L. exams at the end of their fifth year. It’s a very stressful time, much like your muggle GCSE’s, I expect.”

Mr. Chaucer rolled his eyes. “Oh! I remember those! Never thought I’d survive!”

“When I arrived home after my exams, I thought I would be able to relax and spend my summer quietly, away from my troubles at school. But the moment I walked in the house, my father started hurling insults at me, not so different from the bullying I had just endured. As usual, he was drunk. I went to my room and spent that night listening to him beat my mother. It’s an unbelievable feeling of horror, and I am ashamed of my failure to act sooner. In the morning, my father went out, for cigarettes, I think. I told my mother to get out of the house. I was going to take care of him, once and for all.”

“You mean…” Nigel began.

Snape’s voice became very quiet, restrained, pained. “She wouldn’t leave, battered and bruised as she was. I wanted to take her away or call the muggle police or anything to remedy the situation, but she refused, no matter how much I begged. That morning, she tried to calm him down, but all he did was punch her in the face.” He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I took out my wand, ready to use Avada Kedavra on him, but just as fast, he had pulled out a gun and pointed it at my mum. He shot her, just like that.”

“Oh my goodness!” Mrs. Chaucer exclaimed, clutching her heart.

“Before I could kill him, he turned the gun on himself.”

Nigel felt ill all of a sudden. He felt ridiculous, banal, pampered and spoiled. He felt like a complete prat. “What did you do?” he asked. “Did you run?”

“No. I called the muggle police, actually. They came, took my parents away, analysed the scene, and took me to the precinct.”

“You weren’t arrested, were you?” Mrs. Chaucer asked.

“No, but there was an inquiry. But it became clear that this was a murder-suicide, and I was set free. Since I was only sixteen, they actually sent me into council care, as if I was going to live like a muggle urchin or something. So I simply disapparated.”

Nigel raised an eyebrow. “Not yet seventeen?”

Snape gave Nigel a surreptitious wink. “I was in a desperate situation.”

“What happened to the house?” Mr. Chaucer asked. “Did you go back?”

“We rented the house, so it wasn’t mine to inherit. In fact, my parents left me completely destitute.”

“How did you survive?” Mrs. Chaucer asked.

“Narcissa Black’s family took me in for the summer. Draco’s mother. She was one of my few acquaintances from school, though she’s a bit older than I. I appreciated the gesture.”

“Did you know Draco’s father at school?” Nigel asked.

“Not well. By sight mostly. He went down after my first year, actually. Like Draco, he was hard to miss, with all that blond hair. Anyway, when Professor Dumbledore found out what happened to me, he waived my tuition and expenses for the rest of my time at Hogwarts.”

“That was nice of him,” Nigel said. “How did the other students react when they heard?”

“I never told anyone, though one girl from school knew, but that was only because she lived nearby. I was not in any shape to talk about it with anyone, particularly anyone at school. And I feared that the bullies would make light of it or accuse me of killing my parents or some other drivel. I couldn’t bear that possibility.”

“How did you ever survive the year?” Nigel asked.

“I studied, lived in a dark corner of the library, learned as many exotic spells and potions that I could, used every minute I could spare to increase my powers and my control.”

“You didn’t use them on the bullies, did you?” Nigel asked.

Snape smirked. “No. I was tempted to test out a particularly nasty spell I invented on one James Potter, but I decided not to. I hated him, but not enough to kill him.”

That gave Nigel a shock. “I can’t believe it. Harry’s father?”

“Whatever Potter became as a man, he was a vile, sadistic villain at school, and he usually used me as his dupe. I chose not to lower myself to his standards.”

“How bad was the spell?” Nigel asked.

“It is something you must never use on a living soul. You must promise me that, Chaucer, no matter how you may feel about someone, the Sectumsempra spell is painful, messy and very lethal.”

Nigel looked horrified. “I promise, sir.”

The hour grew very late. In fact, Nigel glanced out the window, noticing the wispy traces of dawn inching through the horizon. He suddenly felt exhausted. Bed time.

Nigel returned to his room, while Snape retired to the guest room. He entered the room without a sound, not wanting to disturb the still sleeping Draco Malfoy. Nigel pulled off his clothes and put on an old sweatshirt and track pants, then settled into the rocking chair by the window, stretched out his legs onto the edge of the bed where Draco slept, and drifted off to sleep.


	14. Interrogating Malfoy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Draco blanched. “Look, just leave it alone, Chaucer, OK? It’s nothing to do with you.”_
> 
> _Nigel decided not to push it just then, but he was determined to find out the truth of the matter. He felt he deserved that much, after what he had witnessed and done. Nigel was tempted to ask Snape, but couldn’t be sure if his cousin would be any more forthcoming than Draco._
> 
> _He wasn’t._
> 
> _Even after Nigel helped Snape escort Draco back to Hogwarts’ hospital wing Sunday afternoon, Snape refused to tell Nigel a thing. Nigel had his suspicions about the whole incident—he figured that the Dark Lord had something to do with it. Even though he only knew a little about the Dark Lord, Nigel felt he knew enough to realize that he could be responsible for a severe torture such as this. It had to be._

Nigel wasn’t sure what exactly woke him up a few hours later. He heard a noise, or did he dream it? A little grunt, someone stretching and stirring under warm blankets. Draco was awake. Nigel sat forward in the rocking chair, watching intently as Draco stretched his long arms and legs and tried to wake up his body. Draco rubbed his tired eyes and looked over at Nigel.

“Morning,” Draco mumbled.

“How do you feel? You look pretty good.”

Draco grunted. “I feel like I just got trampled by a hippogryff.”

“You were pretty messed up yesterday.”

“You saved my arse last night, Chaucer. Thanks.” He sat up, still getting his bearings. His face was much less bruised than the night before, and his eyes were no longer swollen. He was calm, focused, rational, back to his usual imperious self.

“What exactly happened to you, anyway?” Nigel asked.

Draco shook his head. “I’m not exactly at liberty to say.”

“Why? Who did this to you?”

Draco became irritated. “Don’t, Nigel. Please, not now. I’m tired and I’m still hurting. Where’s Professor Snape?”

“He’s sleeping in the guest room.”

Draco smirked at the thought of the Professor asleep in a muggle bed, covered in quilts and muggle chintz. “That potion he used, what was it?”

“He never told me the exact name when I made it.”

That made Draco raise his eyebrows in amazement. “You made it?”

“I made it yesterday morning. It’s supposed to heal internal injuries in a matter of minutes. I guess that’s why it was so painful for you.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “You’re not kidding it was painful. I thought the Cruc…never mind.” He blanched. “Look, just leave it alone, Chaucer, OK? It’s nothing to do with you.”

Nigel decided not to push it just then, but he was determined to find out the truth of the matter. He felt he deserved that much, after what he had witnessed and done. Nigel was tempted to ask Snape, but couldn’t be sure if his cousin would be any more forthcoming than Draco.

He wasn’t.

Even after Nigel helped Snape escort Draco back to Hogwarts’ hospital wing Sunday afternoon, Snape refused to tell Nigel a thing. Nigel had his suspicions about the whole incident—he figured that the Dark Lord had something to do with it. Even though he only knew a little about the Dark Lord, Nigel felt he knew enough to realize that he could be responsible for a severe torture such as this. It had to be. 

The only question was why would he do this to a young boy like Draco? Was Draco betrayed, or did he bring this torture on himself? And why was Draco there at all? How did he get himself involved with these dark wizards and what sin did he commit that brought on all this?

So many questions, so few answers. Nigel determined to learn the truth, but the truth proved to be not as accessible as he had hoped.

The following week, when Nigel returned to Hogwarts to work on more defencive magic with Snape, he put the question to his cousin as they ended their lesson on the Patronus charm. Nigel was still only getting a silver vapour, even after four hours of attempts. Snape had grown increasingly irritated with him as time passed with little progress.

“What will my Patronus look like?” he asked. “Will it look like yours?”

Snape shook his head. “The Patronus is a personal expression. It tends to reflect that which gives you the most strength or the most security in your life.”

“So why is yours a doe?”

Snape narrowed his eyes at him. “That is a personal matter. It’s not your business.” Nigel could have sworn he detected a faint flush in his cousin’s cheeks just then.

Feeling bold, then, Nigel took the plunge. “What’s going on with Malfoy anyway? What are all these secret meetings he’s going to?”

Snape set down the pile of books he had just picked up, his features registering the slightest flicker of annoyance. “And why do you want to trouble yourself with information that is unrelated to you?” His voice was aloof, silky, artificial.

“Is it unrelated to me?”

“It doesn’t concern you directly.”

“Do you know what’s going on?”

Snape sighed. “Nigel…”

“What is the big secret? I mean, if it does have something to do with the Dark Lord, shouldn’t I know? If there’s some sort of danger, I think I have a right to know! You said some really bad wizards were responsible for this attack and that they know about me.”

“Look, Nigel, it’s complicated.”

“It’s the Dark Lord, isn’t it? Why is he doing this to Malfoy? You know, sir. Tell me!”

Snape’s black eyes flashed in sudden fury. “Who do you think you are, boy, making such demands? You and I may be family, but that doesn’t give you the right to take advantage of our…”

“I just want to know! I’m not…”

“And what did I tell you about interrupting me?” Snape barked.

“I’m sorry, Severus.”

Snape threw him a fierce glare. “I may be your cousin, Mr. Chaucer, but I am still your professor, and while you are on these grounds you may NOT address me by my first name!” he hissed. “Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

Nigel returned the glare, but then turned away. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that I…I don’t know.”

Snape softened a little. “I don’t blame you for being troubled by all this business, but it’s really not my place to explain it. It’s a very complicated situation.”

“You sound like Malfoy.”

“What did Mr. Malfoy say to you?”

“Nothing. Just like you, he said it’s nothing to do with me.”

“He’s quite correct.”

“Yeah, but I think that after what I did last week, I’ve earned a right to be clued in a little! You said the Dark Lord knows about me!”

“What happened to Mr. Malfoy will not happen to you, Nigel,” he replied.

“No, but he could still want to kill me, sir.”

“He wants to kill lots of people, not just you.” Snape sat down and folded his arms, thinking. “Listen, Nigel. What you did was admirable and generous, and you likely saved Mr. Malfoy’s life that night. Had you left him out there, he would have died from his injuries, I believe. With that being said, all I am really at liberty to say is that Mr. Malfoy has gotten himself mixed up in a situation that he is not capable of managing, which is why he was tortured last week.”

“By the Dark Lord?”

Snape scowled. “Yes, by the Dark Lord.”

“Geez,” Nigel said, concerned.

A thousand new questions assaulted Nigel’s mind, but he felt like he had pushed things as far as he could go with Snape. As he made his way to the Great Hall for dinner that evening, still pondering what he had learned from Snape, Nigel saw Ginny Weasley just ahead of him, alone.

“Ginny!” Nigel called. She looked up and smiled and waved.

“Hey there!” she said, approaching him brightly. “How’re you these days? I haven’t seen much of you since the sorting!”

“Oh yeah, I know. I’ve been pretty busy with lessons, school, stuff like that. How’s Dean?”

Ginny scowled. “Oh, about the same. He’s fine.”

The lack of emotion in her voice gave Nigel a little courage. “Listen, Ginny, have you ever been to the cinema before?”

“Muggle cinema? No, never. I’ve heard about it, I mean, Hermione tells me about it sometimes. So does Dean.”

“Would you be interested in going some time? With me, that is?”

“Um…”

“There’s a theatre in town that I go to a lot, and it always has something pretty good playing.”

“I’d have to get permission from McGonagall.”

“Sure! Maybe the next Hogsmeade weekend? I promise to get you home on time.”

“Um, yeah, okay, I guess so.”

Nigel’s heart sang just a little. “Of course, I have to do my lesson with Professor Snape first, but then I could meet you in Hogsmeade and we could go from there.”

“Yeah, alright. It’s a date!”

In the distance, Nigel spotted Draco Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle entering the Great Hall with their usual gang of friends and cronies. Seeing a Slytherin chatting it up with a Gryffindor didn’t set too well with Draco, or so Nigel could tell by the disapproving scowl on Draco’s still lightly bruised face. Undeterred, Nigel continued his conversation with Ginny.

“Careful, Chaucer, you don’t want to catch the blood-traitor stink from Weasley here,” Draco sneered as they passed them by.

“Shall I tell the school where I found you last Saturday night?” Nigel called out loudly.

Furious, Draco spun around and charged at Nigel. He grabbed him roughly by the lapels of his Slytherin robes and shoved him up hard against the wall, making Nigel hit his head on the stone. A couple of girls screamed in fright. A crowd gathered to watch the incongruous sight of two Slytherins nearly coming to blows in front of the whole school. Instinctively, Nigel thrust his hand forward, and just like that, without a word and without a wand, Draco was sent flying backward, landing in a heap at Crabbe’s feet.

Draco quickly jumped to his feet, glaring at Nigel with a mixture of horror and anger. “Nice little trick, Chaucer, using wandless magic! Very dark stuff! I suppose Snape taught you that!”

The room was filled with murmuring about the force of Nigel’s hex, how high Draco had flown and rumours about how Nigel had learned wandless magic so soon. Excitement buzzed through the air of the Great Hall. Before Nigel could retort, Snape himself arrived, giving both of them furious looks. Draco blanched and straightened his slightly quaking shoulders.

“Both of you, my office! NOW!” Snape barked.

Nigel and Draco marched off, Snape clutching both of them tightly by the upper arm, shoving them harshly forward at their heels. The shocked din in the Great Hall faded as they all traipsed down to the dungeons. Inside Snape’s office, he ordered them both to sit right next to each other in chairs before the massive wooden desk. Snape positioned himself on the edge of the desk, his arms folded firmly across his chest, his dark eyes flashing with rage.

“I demand an explanation,” he said. “You, Chaucer, speak.”

“I was asking Ginny Weasley out on a date, and Draco made a foul comment about her being a blood-traitor, so I threw it right back at him, and that’s when he attacked me,” Nigel said quickly. “I was merely defending myself.”

Snape sighed. “Draco, what have I told you about using such language?”

“It was just a joke, sir,” Draco snapped. “I was just taking the piss out of him!”

“Watch your language, Mr. Malfoy! Why the need to resort to physical violence?” Snape asked.

“Because he threatened to tell everyone about what happened last weekend.”

“It was just talk, sir, I swear! I wasn’t really going to say anything. Malfoy just overreacted, that’s all.” Nigel blushed as Snape gave him such a ferocious glower that Nigel was pretty sure it might make him melt into the stone floor.

“For the last time, Nigel, let it go,” Snape said adamantly. “Neither Mr. Malfoy nor I are in any position to discuss the situation any further, and by issuing idle threats, you endanger not just Mr. Malfoy, but everyone at this school.”

“In short, you don’t trust me, right?” Nigel asked.

“Trust has nothing to do with this. When you are dealing with the Dark Lord, you must be very careful. One wrong word or move, and one can end up like Mr. Malfoy did last week.”

“Why would anyone want to serve someone like that?” Nigel asked.

Draco and Snape looked at each other, equally unsure of how or whether to respond. “Malfoy, get out,” Snape said. “You have detention with me Friday night…”

“That’s not fair! He provoked me!”

“Quiet! And twenty points from Slytherin for your insolence. And your recklessness! Now get out!”

Draco slammed his way loudly out of the room, cursing and swearing as he went. And then, silence. Nigel remained glued to his seat, terrified of moving or speaking. Snape paced before him, thinking carefully of what to say to his confused cousin.

“Sir, is Malfoy really in serious trouble?”

“Yes, he is. It is quite serious, in fact.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Just be a friend to him. He is more isolated than you know, more alienated than you can possibly imagine.”

“You love him, don’t you, sir? Like a son, I mean.”

Snape paused. A look of great worry traveled quickly across his stern features. “Just be good to him. He needs you more than either of you realise.”


	15. A Date with Ginny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Ginny took total control of the situation and before long, had all three boys at her beck and call, allowing Nigel to sit back and relax and enjoy the spectacle. Ginny was stunning, vibrant, commanding—Jimmy couldn’t take his eyes from her, and Clive couldn’t stop laughing at her jokes._
> 
> _If only Ginny would break up with Dean, once and for all. Even though he never said a thing, Nigel could tell that Harry was very interested in Ginny. On occasion, Nigel had used Legilimency on Harry to tap into his thoughts, and all too frequently, a half-dressed Ginny showed up in Harry’s most private fantasies, usually with him looking like some sort of muscleman, naked, covering her with kisses and caresses. Nigel toyed with betraying Harry’s secret dirty dreams to Draco and the other Slytherins, but Nigel restrained himself._

Long hours of Legilimency and Occlumency had worn Nigel out more than he realised. Snape was uncompromising in his expectations of Nigel, and wouldn’t let Nigel rest until he had closed his mind entirely against all intrusions, which was no easy task. Nigel’s mind had been somewhat preoccupied with thoughts about Draco, about Ginny, about the pain he still felt in his body, about Tony… Snape yelled at him over and again, which made Nigel only more distracted, and it was only by an act of sheer determination that he finally managed to keep Snape out.

Therefore, by the time they had finished, the hour had grown far later than Nigel anticipated, and he still had to meet Ginny Weasley in Hogsmeade for their date to the cinema in St. Luke. He kept checking his watch nervously as he waded past First and Second Years, through the Entrance Hall and out the door, worrying all the while whether she had given up on him. The moment he got outside the gates of Hogwarts, Nigel disapparated, landing behind the Three Broomsticks. He straightened his robes, made sure he smelled alright, and rounded the corner and into the pub. Thankfully, Ginny was there with Ron, Hermione, Harry…and Dean. Nigel’s heart sank.

“Hi,” he said skittishly, approaching their table.

“Oh, hi, Nigel,” Ginny said, with a forced cheeriness to her voice. Both Dean and Harry smiled at Nigel in a strained sort of way that told Nigel that he wasn’t entirely welcome at their table. “Where have you been? I thought you’d be here a while ago.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Nigel said. “Snape kept me a lot later than I thought he would. You know what a perfectionist he is.” He sat at the table and ordered a butterbeer.

“What was all that between you and Malfoy last week?” asked Harry.

“Oh that? Just Slytherin stuff. Draco and I don’t always see eye-to-eye on things. His trash talk about Ginny pissed me off. Who ever heard of a blood-traitor anyway?”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Apparently I’m one, too. Complete bosh, all of it.”

“It’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Nigel said.

Hermione sniggered. “An unprejudiced Slytherin? That’s a first!” she crowed.

Nigel felt stung by her rebuke. “Just because I’m in Slytherin doesn’t mean I’m some sort of bigot,” he said defencively. “Not everyone in Slytherin is a total tosspot.”

“She’s just kidding, mate,” Ron said. “Hey, we know you’re not into all that rubbish, mate.”

“How do you stand it there?” Harry asked. “Don’t you find it impossible to be in Slytherin? I mean, you’re a nice guy!”

Nigel shrugged. “It’s not so bad, really,” he said. “Those guys aren’t so bad if you just give them half a chance.”

That made everyone laugh.

“If I gave Draco Malfoy half a chance, he’d hex me into the next life!” Hermione said.

“No he wouldn’t,” Nigel said. “He’s not as bad as you think. It’s just his father that’s the bad influence. And the Dark Lord, of course.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Well we all know that he’s a Death Eater, or at least one in training. Anything to serve his lord and master. I bet he’d even kill for Voldemort if he were asked.”

“Malfoy’s no murderer,” Nigel replied. “He might fancy himself as a tough guy, but he doesn’t have it in him.”

“I agree,” Hermione said. “He talks a big game, but he’s too spoilt to do anything on his own, especially murder. If he had to kill someone, I bet he’d get someone else to do it for him.”

“You know how Malfoy is,” Nigel said, attempting to laugh it all off. “He’s all about appearances, and he probably thought I’d tell the school I’d seen him crying or something.”

That made Harry take notice. “Did you see him crying?” he asked.

“He has a lot to cry about, especially with his father in prison, tormented by Dementors and all. Wouldn’t you cry if your father were in that condition?”

“I haven’t shed a tear over the fate of Lucius Malfoy since he was carted off to that place,” Harry said diffidently.

“You would if it were your dad,” Nigel said.

“My dad is dead,” Harry said plainly. “Thanks to Lucius Malfoy’s lord and master.”

Nigel blushed. “That’s not what I meant, Harry.”

Ginny laid a comforting hand on Nigel’s. “Don’t worry, Nige. We all know what you meant. No one would want to see a loved one go to Azkaban.”

Nigel placed his other hand on top of Ginny’s and gave it a little squeeze. Dean frowned. So did Harry. Ron was distracted by Madame Rosmerta’s new hairdo, which made Hermione frown. Nigel looked at Ginny with a “let’s get going” look. Ginny stood up.

“I’ll be back. Just going to the loo.”

Nigel stood up, too. “I think I will as well.”

“Just be sure to use the Gents!” Ron called after him sternly.

Together, they navigated through the thick crowd, but in the tight little passageway leading directly to the lavatories, Nigel stopped Ginny.

“So, are we still on?” he asked eagerly.

“You were over an hour late, Nigel,” she said, a little irritated. “I’m sorry, but I have a curfew. I can’t afford to lose points for Gryffindor. ”

“We could go now. I can disapparate both of us. Maybe we could just go for a walk or something, do the cinema some other time.”

Ginny smiled and kissed him lightly on the lips. Nigel pulled her close and kissed her back, slowly and sweetly. Her lips were soft, supple, delightful, magical. He thrilled as she ran her fingers gently through his hair, their bodies pressed close and warm together in the cramped passageway. His own hands strayed towards the small of her back, around the narrow curve of her waist as he pulled her even tighter. Nigel wanted to be entirely alone with her, in the privacy of some isolated, curtained chamber, lounging effortlessly on lush pillows, swathed in silk sheets, cool to the touch, sensuous and opulent.

And then someone bumped into them. A stranger, thankfully. Still, the spell was broken, and both Nigel and Ginny came back to their senses. She kissed him again, slowly, luxuriously, a burning, tender kiss. She ran her fingertips down his chest, but then pulled away.

“I’ll talk to Professor McGonagall tomorrow and see if she’ll let me go out with you next week, after your lessons. Is that OK?”

“That’s perfect. And I’m sorry about being so late, Ginny. I really am.” He took her hand and kissed her fingertips.

All that week, Nigel could think of nothing but that kiss. He remembered every detail, from how sweet she smelled to how delicious her lips tasted, to how exciting it was to fill his arms with her lovely body. Jimmy and Clive joked about his aloofness, called him names, teased him about being in love with a forbidden woman, but Nigel refused to give in to their jibes. Monday, Tuesday, Thursday…finally, Saturday came, bright and sunny. Nigel leapt out of bed that morning, practically ran to Hogwarts for his lessons in advanced Legilimency and Occlumency.

“Leave a little bit of clothing on the poor girl,” Snape said with a subdued smirk as they began their lesson. “If you keep undressing her in your mind, she’s likely to get a cold.”

Nigel had forgotten to close his mind. He blushed, and quickly closed his mind so that Snape could not access the even more impure thoughts that ran rampant that blustery morning. Snape raised an eyebrow.

“Stalker,” Nigel said sourly.

“Miss Weasley is a very bright young girl,” Snape said. “I thought she had a boyfriend. A Mr. Thomas, I believe.”

“It’s just a date to the cinema, sir,” Nigel said. “It’s not a life commitment.”

“A Slytherin dating a Gryffindor,” Snape said silkily. “Curious. You do realise that this will cause trouble.”

“As I said, it’s just a date. That’s all.”

In fact, it was one of the best dates that Nigel could remember. He hadn’t had a date with a girl since his return from London, and even before that, his former girlfriend, Alexia, was relatively somber and reserved. Ginny Weasley was anything but that. She was vivacious, funny, witty and sometimes terribly blunt. Since this was her first time to the muggle cinema, she had a wealth of questions for Nigel. Where did the picture come from? How did it project onto the screen? Who ran the machine? Where did the film come from? For once in a long while, Nigel felt in command of the situation. For once, someone else was asking the simplistic questions, and he was the one with all the answers. It felt good.

They held hands through the entire film, and they shared Nigel’s popcorn, too. Every time the crests of their hands touched as they both reached for more popcorn, Nigel felt his toes tingle.

After the film, Nigel and Ginny retired to McDougal’s for some chips and cokes. They sat in an intimate booth in the back of the restaurant, snuggling close, kissing and petting and chatting quietly. She was like a drug, intoxicating, alluring, someone Nigel could absorb into himself entirely.

“Uh oh,” Nigel grumbled, glancing across the restaurant. What he saw unnerved him.

“What is it?” Ginny said, detaching herself from Nigel’s lips. She ran her fingertips down his thigh.

Nigel nodded his head at what he had just seen. Jimmy, Clive and Robert entered and were just seating themselves at their usual booth, talking and joking boisterously as they put in their order.

“Are they friends of yours?” Ginny asked. “Muggle friends?”

“They’re my best mates from school.”

Ginny grinned excitedly. “Oh! I want to meet them!”

Nigel frowned. “Are you sure? What if they ask where you go to school? What will you say?”

Ginny sniggered. “Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ve been preparing for this moment for years! Dad will be so jealous! Come on! Introduce me!”

Nigel took a deep breath. “OK, if that’s what you want.”

They slid out of their booth and went over to where Nigel’s friends were sitting. 

“Hey, guys!” Nigel said.

“Nigel, you old bastard, you didn’t tell us you had a new girl!” Clive joked.

“Guys, this is Ginny Weasley,” Nigel said. “Ginny, this lot are my friends from school. Jimmy, Clive and Robert. Be nice to her, or I’ll put a curse on you all!” He winked at his friends.

“Join us?” Jimmy asked, scooting over so that Ginny and Nigel could slide in to the booth.

“So, Ginny, where did you meet our Nigel?” Clive asked.

“In town,” she said matter-of-factly. “I’m here just for a short amount of time, see, and I happened to spot him in a rather crowded hallway of a pub near here.”

“I just ducked in to use the loo,” Nigel said.

“There was a line, and we got to talking, and then we decided to go to the cinema together. Just like that!” Ginny giggled.

From what Nigel could tell, his friends had believed Ginny’s story. He felt a bit bad about lying to his friends like that, but he feared the truth even more. Snape was most adamant about keeping the magical world absolutely secret, and any mention of Hogwarts could prove disastrous to more than just Ginny or even Snape. Luckily, Ginny took total control of the situation and before long, had all three boys at her beck and call, allowing Nigel to sit back and relax and enjoy the spectacle. Ginny was stunning, vibrant, commanding—Jimmy couldn’t take his eyes from her, and Clive couldn’t stop laughing at her jokes.

If only Ginny would break up with Dean, once and for all. But there were others who were interested in her. Even though he never said a thing, Nigel could tell that Harry was very interested in Ginny. On occasion, Nigel had used Legilimency on Harry to tap into his thoughts, and all too frequently, a half-dressed Ginny showed up in Harry’s most private fantasies, usually with him looking like some sort of muscleman, naked, covering her with kisses and caresses. Nigel shuddered at the thought. He also toyed with betraying Harry’s secret dirty dreams to Draco and the other Slytherins. But Nigel restrained himself—he didn’t want to expose Ginny to disrespect, especially if they did start a relationship. That could get ugly.

Getting a second date with Ginny, however, proved to be much more difficult, for reasons Nigel couldn’t understand. And he soon got so busy with Snape that he barely had any time to confront Ginny or to persist with her for a second date. Weeks passed, and things changed. Ginny’s attentions were directed less at Dean or at Nigel and suddenly at Harry, which upset Nigel more than he was willing to admit.

Keeping up with Snape’s time-consuming and relentless demands kept Nigel from dwelling on his disappointments too much. When Snape told him they were going to work on how to hold ones wand, however, Nigel puzzled. That was a bit rudimentary, wasn’t it?

“In normal cases, Chaucer, I would be inclined to agree with you,” Snape said in response to Nigel’s query. “However, nothing seems to be normal when it comes to you, thank the gods. I knew that once I saw you use wandless magic without prior instruction.”

“It’s no big deal, sir,” Nigel said, trying to act naturally. “I do it a lot.”

Snape frowned briefly. “It is a very big deal, in reality. You have shown that you are capable of powerful hexes with only a movement of the hand. Tell me, have you done this sort of thing with no movement from you?”

“Yes, sir. Is that bad?”

“Not bad. Dangerous, but not bad.”

“Dangerous?”

“Is it not motivated by strong emotion?”

“Well, yeah, but…”

“And can you imagine the state of things if you lost control of your emotions? There’d be people and objects flying left and right! I am going to educate you in a special way for you to hold and use your wand so that you can take advantage of your considerable power and keep it under tight control.”

Nigel nodded. “That makes sense, sir.”

Snape stood up and folded his arms across his chest. “I think you’ll make the family very proud.”


	16. Wand-Waving Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Monday at school, one of his teachers kept him after class to discuss his low marks. All Nigel could do was nod his head and agree. He thought grimly of what his parents would say. Nigel worried. After all, these grades were important to his entire future, despite Snape’s pleas for him to enter Hogwarts full-time. Nigel had so much still to learn from his muggle classes, especially with the prospect of medical school still in his future. But he had allowed himself to get so wrapped up in the wizarding world that he had increasingly let his muggle life fall into neglect. Nigel had so reveled in the startling progress he had made with his cousin that he started to forget all his plans for his future._

Wand-waving lessons? Was this for real? Suddenly, Nigel felt as if he had just taken ten steps backwards, and just as he was really progressing in his magic. It was only his trust in Snape that prevented him from becoming overly cynical about these new lessons.

In the vast emptiness of Professor Flitwick’s disused classroom, Snape stood before Nigel, rolling Nigel’s elegant black wand in his fingers. Daylight filtered in through the long windows, shedding a thin ray of sunshine on Snape’s stark features. He smiled lightly, tight-lipped and intense. “This is a splendid wand,” he finally said. “Graceful, very potent. I can feel it from its core. As you know, your wand is like a conduit, channeling the power from your body and mind, helping you therefore to control and manage it correctly. You must learn to be in touch with your own body. Do you understand?”

Nigel hesitated slightly. “A little,” he finally said.

Snape had strewn the room with the thick cushions Flitwick used in his Charms classes. “I want you to throw me back, Nigel, as hard as you can. Use a banishing hex on me as you did with Mr. Malfoy,” Snape said. “I want to feel just how strong you can be. OK?”

Nigel nodded. He put his hand out, but nothing happened. Snape frowned and rolled his eyes. To Nigel’s shock and surprise, Snape suddenly lunged at him, wand out, face filled with fury. Nigel stepped back, his heart pounding.

“Afraid of me, Chaucer?” Snape asked menacingly. He took another quick lunge at Nigel, who stepped back again.

“Stop it, sir,” he said, unsettled.

Snape lunged forward again, wand out this time, with more force than before. And just like with Draco, in the midst of anger and fear, Nigel thrust his hand forward at Snape, sending his cousin flying back with such force that even the piles of cushions didn’t absorb the pain of the fall. Horrified at what he had just done, Nigel rushed forward to help Snape to his feet.

“Sorry, sir!” he said, helping Snape straighten his robes.

“That was fine, Nigel, just fine,” Snape said.

Nigel scowled. “You did that on purpose.”

Snape smirked. “You were acting like a pissy little girl! I had to do something.”

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“I’ll survive,” he replied with a smirk. “Nigel, I am going to teach you a little hex I came up with my sixth year at Hogwarts. You’ll be able to throw someone back like that, but in slow motion, which is actually quite fun. But, you have to use your wand so you can control the power.” He gripped Nigel by the shoulders and pulled him towards himself, making him spread his arms wide. “Tell me the locus of your powers, on your body. Where do you feel them most?”

“My chest,” Nigel said.

Snape placed his hand on Nigel’s chest for a moment, as if he were trying to feel Nigel’s power for himself. “I want you to feel it work from there, through your shoulder, through your veins, your muscles, towards your hand and ultimately, through your wand.” Snape placed the wand in Nigel’s hand, pressing the end of the handle into Nigel’s palm. “For you, Nigel, the end of your wand must always rest there, pressed into your palm.”

“OK,” Nigel said.

“I realise this may seem a bit rudimentary, but it is of vital importance, and it is not something we have discussed before. Now use your imagination, seeing your power as a red light which you can move back and forth at will.”

Nigel closed his eyes and imagined. It wasn’t easy to keep the vision going, though, and more often than not, he lost sight of it.

Snape scowled in frustration after several minutes of poor results. “Maybe you just need to feel it pulsing through you. But you have to be able to guide it where you want it to go. Control is key.”

Nigel tried that, which seemed to work well. It surged and sizzled in his veins, in his heart, his muscles, in every synapse and cell. Nigel could push it around inside his body, like batting a tennis ball, first right, then left, then up high, high, crashing down violently. At last, the right moment came. As Snape watched assiduously, Nigel pointed his wand at a large cushion and banished it, but slowly, as if in a muggle film.

“Hold it,” Snape coached, watching with glee. “Keep holding it and pushing slowly. Slower.” Nigel pushed and the cushion crawled on through the air, backward. “Now,” Snape said, “see what happens when you jerk your wand upward.”

Nigel obeyed. And with that, the cushion spun around like a top and crashed into the wall violently. Snape gave him a very proud look. “I should do that to a person?” Nigel asked.

“I’m not saying you should,” Snape said.

“But…”

“But, if you can learn to control your powers to this level, there is nearly nothing you can’t do with magic.”

That was a shock. “Do you really think I’m that powerful, sir?”

Snape approached him and took him paternally by the arms. Looking directly into Nigel’s eyes, Snape said, “You’re one of the most powerful wizards I have ever encountered. You’re extraordinary.”

Snape’s words stayed with Nigel all the way home, as he ate dinner with his parents, as he talked to Clive on the phone, and as he brushed his teeth that night before bed. Nigel spat out the toothpaste, rinsed and moved to put his toothbrush away. But he paused, looking into his reflection carefully. He snarled at himself, trying to look fierce. That made Nigel laugh. It was the same face as before, the same brown hair, placid eyes, high cheekbones and rather thin mouth. There was the scar on his chin from the accident, and another one on his neck. It was a very English face, steeped in history, reaching back to his Anglo-Saxon roots, before the Princes and the Snapes, even before the Chaucers.

Nigel searched for evidence of the power his cousin saw in him, but he couldn’t see it. Maybe it was an attitude he needed to adopt, in the fashion of someone like Draco Malfoy or like Severus Snape. The two of them seemed to radiate power by their very presence, by the force of their personalities and demeanor. By comparison, Nigel felt like a boy, a fledgling, taking his first quavering steps. He felt about as far from extraordinary as a garden slug.

He pointed his toothbrush at the mirror and said, “Expelliarmus!” A beam of light shot out of his hand, smashed the mirror, bounced back on him and sent the toothbrush flying.

Footsteps on the stairs. His father’s voice. “What the hell is going on up there?” he called from the landing.

“Reparo,” Nigel said quietly, swooping his hand across the length of the broken mirror, which came back together swiftly and neatly. “Nothing!” he called back to his father. “I just dropped something.”

“’Night!”

“’Night, Dad!”

Monday at school, Nigel, Clive, Neville and Jimmy sat at their usual table eating lunch. Ham sandwiches and cooked peas and carrots. Like always, the peas were a little overdone and the carrots were a little underdone. But Nigel was too hungry to complain and he shoveled his food as if he were a starving street urchin in a soup kitchen. It had been a rough day. Nigel got two exams back, and he hadn’t done very well on either of them. One of his teachers kept him after class to discuss his poor progress. All Nigel could do was nod his head and agree. He felt tempted to use his accident as an excuse, though as time passed, that became less believable for his teachers. He thought grimly of what his parents would say.

Nigel worried. After all, these grades were important to his entire future, despite Snape’s pleas for him to enter Hogwarts full-time. Nigel had so much still to learn from his muggle classes, especially with the prospect of medical school still in his future. But he had allowed himself to get so wrapped up in the wizarding world that he had increasingly let his muggle life fall into neglect. Nigel had so reveled in the startling progress he had made with his cousin that he started to forget all his plans for his future. By now, as the end of the school year drew near, things had changed. His teachers had noticed a drop in his grades, a shift in his involvement at school, his inattentiveness and preoccupation with other things, which none of them could identify.

Nigel’s parents fortunately never betrayed his secret identity. Both Nigel and Snape had made it abundantly clear to them that exposing the wizarding world was a very serious matter, and they had honoured that. That made it tricky, however, for them to explain their son’s difficulties in school, and thus told the counselor that Nigel was still suffering the after effects of his brush with death. The counselor understood, and the next thing Nigel knew, he had been called into her office to discuss his feelings and emotions. That meeting was brutal.

Nigel’s relief at being out of class and out of the counselor’s office made him all the more hungry, and the moment he finished his first sandwich, he got up to get two more.

When he got home that afternoon, Nigel was greeted by a very annoyed Mrs. Chaucer, who surprisingly had set out a plate of Jaffa Cakes and a glass of juice on the kitchen table for her son.

“Thanks, mum,” Nigel said. He kissed his mum on the cheek and ate a cake.

“I talked to Mrs. Havers today,” she said. Her voice was clipped, a little tense. “She’s worried about you, honey.”

Nigel nodded and ate another Jaffa Cake. “She sent me to the counselor today. Everyone thinks I’m barkers.”

“No they don’t.”

“They think I’m traumatised or something.”

“I would understand if you were.”

“I’m fine, Mum. Really.” He sighed and ate another cake. “I’m just busy, that’s all. I have a lot to learn, in both schools.”

Mrs. Chaucer sat down and nibbled on a cake. “How much longer will you be taking these lessons?”

“I don’t know. Probably another year. Snape wants me to go to Hogwarts full-time.”

“You know that is out of the question.”

Nigel nodded. “I know.”

“You’ve got Cambridge, and then Stanford. Don’t forget that.”

“I haven’t forgotten, Mum!” Nigel snapped. “Sorry.”

Mrs. Chaucer put a motherly hand on his and gave him a little squeeze. “Talk to me, Nigel. What’s troubling you?”

“Nothing.”

She scowled at him.

“It’s just…I don’t know. I guess I’m just asking myself a lot of questions these days. I mean, I have all these plans, but now all this other stuff is happening. I feel like I’m being pulled in two directions, I guess. I feel like I have to choose.”

Mrs. Chaucer pressed her son’s fingers to her lips. “You just feel pressure because all of this is new to you, to all of us. Your father and I probably haven’t been as supportive as we should have been.”

“That’s ridiculous, Mum. You’ve been great. I just need to figure this out.”

Nigel hoped that his cousin would be able to give him a little wisdom, but he found Snape to be equally unhelpful.

“You know how I feel about this, Nigel,” he said as they sat in his office after their lesson that Saturday. “You need to study magic full-time so you can hone your powers. You’re feeling pulled apart because you’re straddling two worlds that will never come together.”

“The worst part of it is the secrecy, to be honest. I hate having to hide half my life. I hate having to lie to my friends. I feel a bit dirty, like I’ve been doing something wrong. Even when I ran into Draco at McDougal’s, I had to lie to my friends and pretend I knew Draco from London.”

Snape glared at Nigel. “When did you run into Mr. Malfoy?”

“A couple of days before I brought him to my house, a couple of months ago. He said he was going to a meeting.”

“Some meeting,” Snape sneered.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, sir.”

“Never mind. Have you made a decision, then? Will you study full-time at Hogwarts?”

Nigel felt sick. “I just can’t sir. I can’t. I’ve always wanted to study medicine, to be a doctor…”

“You can become a Healer.”

“I don’t want to be a Healer.”

“How do you know? You don’t even know what a Healer does.”

“I don’t care what a Healer does.”

“Don’t be stupid, Nigel.”

“I’m not being stupid!”

“You’re acting like a spoilt ten year-old!”

Nigel shot such a vicious glare that the papers on Snape’s desk flew into the air, as if tossed by hurricane force. Just as quickly, he looked away, sending the papers fluttering to the floor. Nigel rose from his chair, stooped down and starting cleaning up his mess. Snape let him. Midway through the clean-up, Nigel stopped, his heart heavy with sudden grief.

“I don’t know what to do, sir,” he said quietly.

“You will. In time.”


	17. Anniversary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _…the tires screeched as the lorry barreled around the corner. “STOP!” And then it was on him, crushing him, battering him… Voices screamed, shrieked, cried, but he couldn’t tell them to stop and he couldn’t see and he couldn’t breathe…_
> 
> “Hey!”
> 
> Strong hands gripped his arms, shaking him hard.
> 
> “Hey!”
> 
> More shaking.
> 
> “Chaucer! Wake up!” The voice sounded vaguely familiar, very close.
> 
> Nigel’s eyelids snapped open, and with a horrified gasp, he sat bolt upright, his body drenched in cold sweat.

Spring came sweetly, with all its new greenery and light over the countryside. Soon it was lambing season, and now the hillsides were dusted with the white fuzz and delicate wildflowers. Mrs. Chaucer planted daffodils in the front garden, as she did every springtime. This was Nigel’s favourite time of the year, as it meant that the summer holiday was not far away. He delved into his studies at school, forgetting everything else around him—almost. One thing that he hadn’t forgotten was Snape’s request to be friends with Draco Malfoy. In truth, Nigel wasn’t thrilled at the prospect, but he decided to trust his cousin and do what he could to support his fellow Slytherin.

This was no easy task. Draco had grown increasingly sullen, aloof, irascible, moody. On top of that, he was getting harder and harder to find. It was common knowledge that he would sort of disappear from sight from time to time, yet no one seemed to miss him much. In fact, the vast majority of Hogwarts students seemed much happier on those days when Draco Malfoy was nowhere to be found. People smiled more when he was away—Nigel had the terrible feeling that if they knew he had been beat up and tortured by the Dark Lord, they would have smiled even more.

In spite of these challenges, Nigel knew that his friend was eager to unburden his mind. Nigel could sense Draco’s unrest, his distress and misery, his desire to talk so someone, anyone. He started to see how alone Draco truly was, and how much he had alienated himself not only from his foes, but from his friends as well. On top of it all, Draco’s constant disappearances didn’t help to mend the growing gap, despite Nigel’s best efforts to get him to talk more. So far, Draco was not forthcoming, no matter how often Nigel put the question to him.

In addition to Draco’s remoteness, Snape was increasingly irritated, harsh, rough and unruly, even more so than usual. His cousin was unpredictable on a good day, but as time wore on, Snape had become almost as difficult as Draco, leaving Nigel with more questions and fewer answers. Nigel wouldn’t have minded the usual abuse, except that his comments seemed abnormally out of line these days.

“Really, Mr. Chaucer, if you insist on being an unbearable idiot…”

“That, Mr. Chaucer, was beneath even Goyle on his worst days in class…”

“You seem to be growing stupider as time passes…”

And the worst insult…

“You’re making Mr. Potter look like a genius, Chaucer.”

Normally, Nigel would take it all in stride and make the usual excuses for his cousin’s cruelty, but his patience was growing thin. OK, so he was still trying to maintain good marks at school, which still was problematic, and he was harbouring a little broken heart when he heard that Ginny was now dating Harry Potter, and he was jealous that his ex-girlfriend, Alexia, was now seeing the gorgeous David Cromwell. Nigel was also becoming haunted by terrifying memories of his accident as the first year anniversary approached, giving him horrible screaming nightmares for days on end. And then, after Nigel failed to transform his owl into a rat, Snape said the worst thing ever:

“You are an embarrassment to Slytherin House.”

That was it. Nigel had heard just about enough. He slammed down his wand and glared at Snape.

“What is your damn problem?” he shouted, out of nowhere. “Why do you always insult me, dammit? I don’t care who you are! You can’t treat me like that! Save your venom for Potter or someone who actually deserves it!”

At first, Snape looked affronted, infuriated, as if he would level Nigel with such a hex that it would take him weeks to recover from it. Then he looked like he might throw Nigel such a punch that it would send him flying into the wall. Instead, Snape steeled himself.

“I think it would be a good idea for us to end early today, Nigel.”

Nigel glared at him as he threw his books into his bag. “End for good, maybe,” he grumbled, exasperated.

“Don’t be so childish!” Snape sighed. “I promise to be in better humour next week, Nigel. I want you to come back. We still have things to do.”

Nigel sighed impatiently, peevishly. “Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. With that, he stormed out, up the stone steps and toward the Great Hall.

There, he found the usual crowd—Pansy, Vincent, Greg, Blaise, Millie. He also spotted Harry and Ginny cooing and snogging at the Gryffindor table. Nigel felt sick. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he get it together all of a sudden? Unable to be anything remotely sociable, Nigel made his way out of the castle, toward his favourite spot on a far side of the lake, far from sight. The air felt clean and cool, with the scents of new spring growth everywhere. The nearby hillsides were white and pink and green, fresh, young, vibrant. But as Nigel trudged along toward the shade of a nearby tree, he slowed down, spotting the figure of Draco Malfoy, lounging languidly in the shade.

“Hey!” Nigel called.

Draco looked over casually, but made no move or gesture beyond that to acknowledge Nigel’s presence. Nigel threw down his bag and sat down next to Draco, stretching his legs alongside his friend’s.

“Lessons done?” Draco asked lazily. He stretched his long arms over his head and grunted lightly.

“Yeah. I made a real blunder though.”

Draco laughed. “I suppose you finally put Snape in his place.”

“I did. Well I wanted to, anyway.”

“He needs that. He gets away with far too much abuse around here. I haven’t suffered too much under it, though I’ve witnessed him eviscerating a student verbally on many occasions. Normally I enjoy the spectacle, though I suppose it must be rather tiring after a while.”

“You bet it is,” Nigel grumbled.

“What’s wrong with you, Chaucer? You seem really down today. You look like hell.”

“I don’t know.” Nigel knew. He pouted. “It’s nothing. It’s just…next week…it’s the one year anniversary of my accident. I guess it’s bringing up a lot of bad memories, stressing me out a lot.”

“But you’re OK now, right?”

“More or less. Not as much physical therapy any more.”

“Pain?”

“Some. My back will never be the same, that’s for sure. My hips will always hurt a little. The pain sometimes wakes me up at night, which is a real pisser.”

Draco rolled his eyes, almost sympathetically. Almost. “No wonder you look like hell. Why don’t you go to Madame Pomfrey?”

“I did. There’s nothing she can do.”

“Too bad. You must be angry.”

That was one subject Nigel had worked hard at avoiding. He had spent six very uncomfortable months in counseling, supposedly getting in touch with his feelings and working through the trauma of what had happened to him. Nigel never liked discussing his feelings, and he especially didn’t want to get in touch with any emotional pain he felt. His preference had always been to distract himself from pain through study or friends or sport. To his horror, however, as that fateful date in May rapidly approached, his nightmares worsened, and at times, he could have sworn that he could feel the physical torment of the accident all over again, in all its nauseating, bloody violence.

Draco studied Nigel carefully and smirked. “You’re angry.”

“Damn right I’m angry,” Nigel seethed. “But it’s over. It’s been a year now, and I’m over it.”

“You’re a lousy liar,” Draco said.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Nigel said.

“Oh come on, mate, lighten up. Don’t take out your anger against Snape on me!”

Nigel sighed. “You’re right. Sorry. I’ve been saying that a lot these days. Snape’s been pressuring me to come to Hogwarts next term.”

“Is that bad?”

“I have plans. I’ve had plans all my life! I can’t just give them up, just like that!”

“Why not? You’re a wizard now, whether you like it or not. You can’t expect your life to go back to the usual muggle routine after you’ve learned a few magic tricks. It doesn’t work that way! You’re an idiot.”

“I am NOT an idiot!”

“Yes you are! You think that you can just walk back into your old life like nothing ever happened!”

“That’s not…”

“Don’t you get it, you prat? You’re a wizard! Doesn’t that mean anything to you? Don’t you see what that has done to your life? Doesn’t the notion of power appeal to you?”

“Of course, but…”

“You think you’re still a muggle, that you can still live a muggle life! You can’t, Chaucer! It’s over! Get used to it, mate. You will never be a muggle again, and you have to set aside your muggle plans!”

Nigel pouted again. “You sound like Snape.”

“He’s right. You know he’s right.”

“I have friends, I like my classes, and I really…”

But Draco was laughing at him, which infuriated Nigel even more.

“Can we change the subject please?” Nigel snapped. “I’ve been mocked enough for a day.”

“I’m sorry, Chaucer,” Draco said, catching his breath. “I’m not trying to mock you. I swear.”

“Where have you been these days anyway?” Nigel asked, furrowing his brow.

“Busy.”

“Busy how? Dark Lord busy?”

“You’re right. Let’s change the subject.” Draco’s face became very troubled.

“Are you okay, Malfoy? Have you had any more…meetings?”

“I’ve already told you…”

“I can tell it’s killing you, I mean, look at you! I might look like hell but you look even worse!”

“Oh, thanks a lot,” Draco replied sourly. “By the way, sod off.”

Nigel scowled. “I don’t get you, mate. Let me be a friend to you, dammit! Talk to me! You know you can trust me, don’t you? I’m not like those other guys you hang around with, Draco. I’m not in for anything other than being a friend to you. I swear!”

Draco looked off into the distance, seeming to study the light dancing on the surface of the lake. “Snape trusts you, right?” he said, not looking at Nigel.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“He tells you things, right?”

“Some things. A lot of things.”

“Does he talk about me?”

“He loves you like a son. He’s worried about you.”

Draco scowled. “He loves you, too, I suppose.”

“I suppose.”

“Then that makes us like brothers, right?”

Nigel shrugged. “I guess. In a way, yeah.”

“Stay tonight, yeah? We’ll sneak out later, go somewhere private. I’ll bring a bottle of fire whiskey.”

At dinner at the Great Hall, Nigel sat with Draco, Pansy, Blaise and his girlfriend, Blaire. The couple was almost too beautiful to be real, Nigel mused. As they chatted and joked about that evening over their shepherd’s pie and treacle tart, Nigel specifically avoided making eye contact with the Gryffindor table, except to notice Harry nuzzling Ginny’s hair, Ginny nibbling Harry’s earlobe, Harry running his hand over Ginny’s slender shoulders, Ginny running her hand up Harry’s thigh, the constant butterfly kisses they exchanged throughout the meal. Other than that, Nigel noticed nothing. Draco kicked him under the table.

“Pervert,” he sniggered.

“OK, so how many Gryffindorks does it take to light a lantern?” Pansy asked.

“How many?” Blaise asked.

“A thousand. One to hold the match and nine hundred ninety-nine to turn the room around!”

Everyone laughed, including Nigel. It was the first real laugh he had had in a long while, even if it was a stupid joke.

Later that night, after a long session of more gossip and dirty jokes at the expense of the Gryffindors, it was time for bed. Nigel didn’t have a bed in Slytherin house, but Draco intervened.

“It’s OK, Chaucer. You can bunk with me.”

Nigel wasn’t too chuffed at that suggestion. He preferred the comfort and privacy of his own bed, and he was especially uncomfortable about sharing sleeping space with another boy, especially with Draco Malfoy. Fortunately, Draco’s bed was wide enough for three, so at least Nigel could put a little space between him and his friend. That lasted all of five minutes. Nigel quickly learned that Draco was as greedy in bed as he was any other time. The moment Draco fell asleep, he moved his body into the centre of the bed, and before Nigel could scoot safely away, Draco had grabbed him like a rag doll and pulled him toward him self, snuggling down and snoring lightly. Nigel could feel his warm breath on the back of his neck.

The rhythm of Draco’s steady breathing, the heat of Draco’s body against his and the lateness of the hour all went to Nigel’s head, and soon, Nigel drifted off to sleep…

* * * * *

_…the tires screeched as the lorry barreled around the corner. “STOP!” And then it was on him, crushing him, battering him… Voices screamed, shrieked, cried, but he couldn’t tell them to stop and he couldn’t see and he couldn’t breathe…_

“Hey!”

Strong hands gripped his arms, shaking him hard.

“Hey!”

More shaking.

“Chaucer! Wake up!” The voice sounded vaguely familiar, very close.

Nigel’s eyelids snapped open, and with a horrified gasp, he sat bolt upright, his body drenched in cold sweat. Draco still held him by the shoulders, wide-eyed and spooked. A few pairs of curious faces stared out from their curtained four-posters, but once they saw that Draco had taken control, they disappeared back into the darkened boys’ dorm, asleep once more.

“Are you awake?” Draco asked.

Nigel nodded quickly, at once filled with shame and relief. He shook with fright. Draco handed him a glass of water, which Nigel gulped down. “What time is it?” Nigel asked tremulously.

“One. You were screaming, man. You had a nightmare.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Nigel was too mortified to be anything other than sarcastic.

Draco knelt next to him and whispered in his ear. “Come on! This is the perfect time for us to…you know.” Draco squatted down and grabbed a black velvet bag and his wand. Then he disappeared for a moment and reappeared in jeans and a black sweater. 

With some effort, Nigel pulled on his own sweater and his shoes and socks. His bones ached horribly, making him move at a snail’s pace. Draco motioned for him to follow, which Nigel did, out to the common room.

“Where’s your wand?” Draco asked.

“I don’t need it.”

“You need it,” Draco insisted. “You never know what you’ll run into around here these days.”

Nigel raised a curious eyebrow. “Afraid of Aurors, are we Malfoy?”

“Shut up, Chaucer.”

“Fine. Accio wand!” Nigel whispered. He held out his hand palm out, rather than palm up. The wand floated toward Nigel slowly, deliberately, silently.

Draco watched in amazement. “How did you…”

Nigel shrugged.

“OK, we’re disapparating, so take my arm.”

“What do you mean? You can’t…”

“I know what I’m doing. Have a little faith, Chaucer.” Draco looked forward and moved his wand in an exaggerated arc. Just before them appeared what looked like…

“A cave?” Nigel asked.

Together they entered, and then with determination and deliberation, the boys vanished from sight.


	18. Out of Bounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just two friends by the Black Lake...with a bottle of firewhiskey. But how much will Draco confide in Nigel? And will either of them remember anything the next morning?

The Black Lake was smooth and pristinely calm that night, lapping softly on the shore where Nigel and Draco sat, looking out at the crescent moon in the open sky. The air felt cold to Nigel’s skin as it rushed off the surface of the lake, causing both boys to shiver a little. Nigel could feel his spine tingle just a little—his joints felt tight and stiff and sore. He and Draco passed the bottle of fire whiskey back and forth, each taking a swig, trying to control their coughing as the strong liquor stung their virgin throats.

“This stuff is terrible!” Nigel slurred. “It tastes like shit!”

“It’s not so bad,” Draco said, laughing. “You just have to drink a lot of it, then it tastes just fine!” He burped loudly, which made Nigel fall over, cackling. “You sound like my Aunt Bellatrix!” Draco crowed. “That’s exactly how she sounds!”

Nigel lay back on the ground in the cool grass and looked up at the swirling stars. “Is that the Big Dipper or the Little Dipper?” he asked. “I always get my Dippers screwed up.” He giggled stupidly.

“It’s Orion, dumbass!”

They laughed again. Draco took a swig of whiskey and passed the bottle to Nigel, who took a long drink. He swooned.

“You’re right, mate,” Nigel said. “Once you’ve had enough of this shit, it’s not so bad.” Now he burped.

They lay back for a while and said nothing, happy just to watch the twinkling stars in the black sky. Occasionally they heard something rustling in the woods behind them, or the Giant Squid burbling in the distance, but nothing stirred them from their dream-state.

“I love this place,” Draco said softly, almost wistfully, to no one in particular.

Nigel didn’t respond. The crisp night air felt liberating to his senses, and suddenly, he felt bold. He sat up and faced Draco.

“Tell me everything,” he said. He reached for the bottle and took another swig.

Draco looked away. “About what?” he said, trying to act nonchalant.

Nigel reached out and touched Draco on the shoulder. “Look, man, I’m pretty drunk right now. Chances are that whatever you tell me I’ll forget by morning. You can tell me what’s going on.”

Draco shook his head gravely, his body now filled with emotion. His handsome face was bathed in moonlight, making him look like something out of a Greek tragedy. Shadows danced along the hard, lean lines of his cheekbones, his brow. For a long time, neither wizard spoke a word.

“You won’t forget it, Nigel,” Draco finally said, his voice taut. “I know you won’t. It’s too horrible for anyone to forget.” Draco sniffled a little and wiped his eyes with the back of his sweatered hand. “Besides, there’s nothing you can do. No one can.”

“I can listen. That’s got to count for something.”

“You’ll hate me. I know you will, and I don’t think I can quite take that just now.”

“I won’t hate you, Draco.”

“I…” he began. He sighed heavily, his voice heavy with grief, finally submitting to what he had long wanted to say to someone. “I have to…kill…someone. Here at school.”

“My gods! Draco!” Nigel said, incredulous. What else could he say at such a moment? It was impossible to comprehend, unfathomable. He had figured maybe Draco would have to steal something or maybe spy on Harry Potter, but kill? “But you can’t do that, Draco! You can’t just kill someone!”

“You don’t understand, Nigel. I have to! I don’t have a choice!”

“You always have a choice, Draco! You have free will!”

Draco laughed scornfully. “I don’t! Not in this!”

“You could walk away. Run away!”

And then, Draco dissolved into angry tears, leaving Nigel with nothing to do but watch in helpless dismay. It was an unbelievable sight, to see someone the likes of Draco Malfoy weeping like a child.

“You don’t get it! I told you, I don’t have a damn choice!” Draco rolled up his left sleeve to show Nigel a tattoo on his arm—the tattoo was of a skull, with a serpent snaking out of its mouth. Nigel could have sworn he saw it move.

“Nice tattoo.”

“It’s not a tattoo, you idiot! It’s the Dark Mark,” Draco said, sniffling back his tears. “It was given to me this summer by the Dark Lord himself.”

“He put it on you?”

“Personally. You know what it means, right?”

“Not exactly.” Nigel wasn’t so sure he wanted to know.

“It means I’m a Death Eater, just like my father. Just like Professor Snape, too,” he added quietly.

Nigel let out a laugh. “Well I already know about Severus, but you? That’s crazy! You? A teenaged Death Eater?”

Draco frowned. “You think it’s funny? This is serious business, Chaucer!”

“You’re right, Draco. I’m sorry. But aren’t you a little young to be a Death Eater?” Nigel asked.

“I thought so, too, at first anyway. Over the summer, not long after my father’s imprisonment, I was summoned to meet with the Dark Lord personally. Honestly, I had no idea what he wanted from me at first, I mean, I figured it would have something to do with freeing my father.”

“So why did you go if you weren’t sure?”

“You don’t say no to the Dark Lord, Chaucer, though I had no idea what to expect. All I can say is that I had high hopes. And then my aunt Bella told me I would be receiving a great honour, that the Dark Lord had heard about me and wanted me to join his ranks.”

“And you believed her?” Nigel asked skeptically.

“I idolised my aunt, Nigel!” Draco declared. “She was like a heroine to me! She was willing to go the distance for the Dark Lord, even prison, so when she told me about this meeting, I was excited and curious. Mum was reluctant to let me go, but she could never actually say no to me, so off I went, like the prat that I am. I got the Dark Mark with everyone around in a big circle, watching with what I thought was pride.”

Draco wept again at the memory, but quickly recovered his composure. “The Dark Lord said it wasn’t enough for me to have the Mark, but now I was going to have to earn it…”

“By killing someone?” Nigel shook his head with disgust.

Draco nodded, drying his face with his sleeve.

“At first I was happy to do it. I was still angry about my father’s arrest, and I could have killed just about anyone. The Dark Lord told me that if I succeeded, there was nothing he wouldn’t grant me, including my father’s freedom. I wanted that more than anything. You have no idea what it’s like to have a father in prison, Chaucer!”

“You miss him.”

Draco nodded, shedding new tears. “I even had a plan. A good plan. It was supposed to be so easy, except…”

“What?”

“The thing I need to complete it is still broken. Without it, the plan will fail! The Dark Lord doesn’t want to hear that, though.”

“And he tortured you?”

“Yeah.”

“What did he do?”

Draco took a long swig from the bottle. His hand shook a little. “Oh the usual shit. A little Cruciatus, a severe beating, a little stringing me up by the wrists and kicking me like a muggle football. I thought my father’s punishments were pretty rough, but this…” His voice trailed off.

Nigel shuddered. “I’ve heard the Cruciatus curse is pretty horrible.”

“Imagine your body dipped in nitric acid, then electrocuted, then pounded with a sledge hammer, and you start to get a small idea of what it’s like.”

“Unbelievable.”

Draco paused for a moment. “I had this really clear moment, my mouth filled with my own blood, and I saw exactly what I had done. I’m such a fool, Nigel! Snape has been right about me all along! How could I get myself into this? And the worst part is that saying no is not an option!”

“You still can.”

“NO!” Draco looked desperately at Nigel. “You don’t understand! I HAVE to do this! If I don’t, or if I fail, he’ll kill me! He’ll kill my family, my mum and my dad! I can’t let him do that, Nigel! I’ve been such a spoilt brat, such a disappointing failure to my parents all my life, and I can’t stand the thought that I’d be responsible for their torture and death! It’s too much!”

Nigel stared at him, incredulous.

Draco snorted. “You don’t think he would merely kill them, do you? He’ll torture them first, slowly, very painfully. He’d have the Death Eaters violate my mum, in front of me, of course. That’s what Death Eaters do. They torture and rape and destroy! He’d force me to hear them begging for their lives, hating me, blaming me. I can’t do that to them!” He wept painfully, his entire body shaking with anguish.

“Who is it?” Nigel asked. “Who are you supposed to kill? Is it Harry?”

Draco shook his head. “I can’t tell you that. If I do, you’ll try to stop me.”

“Listen to me. You’re not a killer, Draco. You’re a mean son of a bitch, but you’re not a killer.”

“I have to be. Nothing else matters now. Nothing. I don’t care about anything else in the world but getting this thing done. I will not let my parents die like that, Nigel.” His voice was strong again, determined. “Can we talk about something else, please?”

But they didn’t talk. Nigel was lost for words, filled with horror at the prospect of what his friend faced. For a long time they sat in silence and finished the bottle. The hour grew late and the air grew colder.

“I’m freezing my arse off,” Nigel said.

“Let’s stay out here,” Draco replied, lying back on the grass. “I’m too knackered to move. Too much whiskey. Come on, lie back and sleep.”

Equally exhausted and still a little drunk, Nigel relented and lay back. Soon, huddled together for warmth, the boys fell soundly asleep.

* * * * *

Giggling.

“Lovers’ nest?”

More giggling.

“They’re so cute together!”

Footsteps passing by.

* * * * *

Nigel awoke first, dry mouthed, shivering, his head aching from too much fire whiskey and too little sleep. As he pried open his tired eyes, he noticed that the slumbering Draco had him locked in a tight, full body embrace. In spite of the fact that Draco was still snoring softly, his grip on Nigel was incredibly strong. Nigel had to nudge him a little with his foot to get him to loosen his hold.

“Wake up, Malfoy,” he croaked. He wriggled out of Draco’s arms and sat up. The morning sunlight pierced his eyes like daggers, firing into the back of his hung-over brain. He groaned and rubbed the sleep out of his face. His whole body was stiff and wracked with pain.

The two of them were covered with grass and dust and leaves. Their hair was a mess, their clothes dirty, their faces haggard and in need of a shave or at least a good washing. Draco stretched out his body and grunted.

“Oh man, I feel like shit,” he groaned.

The sound of nearing footsteps brought them both to attention, and before they could make a bleary run out of sight, Argus Filch came crashing toward them, with Mrs. Norris and a furious Severus Snape at his heels. Nigel and Draco sat in place, defeated, fearing the very worst. Snape was notoriously harsh on students found out of bed after hours.

“Here they are, Professor, just like those girls said!” Filch said, salivating with the prospect of punishing the two of them.

Those girls? Shit! Nigel could feel a burning in the pit of his stomach.

“That will be all, Argus,” Snape said stiffly.

Filch glared at Snape, then stomped off with his cat.

“It’s not what you think,” Nigel blurted out. Draco gave him an offended look.

Snape eyed them carefully. “Oh, I don’t know about that. My office. Now.”

Nigel and Draco jumped to their feet and were led off to Snape’s office, with Snape prodding both of them along with his wand as they went. As they entered the castle and traipsed through the throngs of students in the Great Hall, a few people cat-called them, wolf-whistled at them, howled and cheered at them. People made kissing noises at them as they passed, their faces contorted with derisive laughter. Burning with humiliation, all Nigel could do was look straight ahead and keep moving.

Inside Snape’s office, things only got worse.

“I am fed up with both of you,” he seethed. “Draco, you know better than to pull this sort of stunt, and you” he snapped at Nigel. “I expected better from you. You may not be a full-time student here, but that does not give you the right to flout school rules!”

“It was totally innocent, sir,” Draco said. “We were just talking.”

“And drinking,” Snape said with disgust. “I can smell the liquor on you! Mr. Malfoy, you will spend the next three Wednesdays in detention with me. And as for you, Mr. Chaucer, I am fining you five Galleons.”

“That’s not fair!” Nigel shouted.

“That is more than fair, and the next time you shout at me, I will triple the fine! Furthermore, I am taking twenty points from Slytherin from each of you.”

Draco looked away with fury.

Snape glared at him. “Don’t pull that outraged act on me, Mr. Malfoy. Now explain exactly why you were out there!”

Nigel began. “It was my fault, sir.”

“I doubt that.”

“No, see, we were all asleep, but then I had a bad dream about my accident and Malfoy sorta helped me out. I was in a panic, so we went outside to get some air.”

“With a bottle of whiskey?” He jiggled the empty bottle in their faces.

“Well…we were just talking, sir, I swear. We weren’t up to anything…you know. And then the hour got late and we were cold and then we got tired, and we just fell asleep. I swear, sir, that’s what happened.”

“That still does not give you the right to break the school rules. Those rules are in place for a reason, Mr. Chaucer, just as they are at your school! You may not live here, but the rest of us do, and I, along with my colleagues, have a responsibility to keep our students safe, day and night!”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Nigel said.

Snape stood up. “It’s time you were getting home, I think. And as for you, Mr. Malfoy, I believe you have an essay to complete for me. I’d like to see you pass for a change.”

Back in the Great Hall, Nigel tried to make his through as clandestinely as he could, but it was no good. The moment everyone laid eyes on him, the jokes and whistles started up again. His face flushed with rage and embarrassment, he rushed from the Hall, out the door, and straight into Ginny Weasley, nearly knocking her down.

“Oh geez, I’m sorry!” Nigel gasped. He leaned down to pick up the books he had knocked out of her hands.

“That’s OK,” she said cheerily. She smiled at him. “I heard you and Malfoy got caught…”

“It’s not what you think!” Nigel snapped.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Everyone thinks I’m Malfoy’s gay sex toy now.”

Ginny laughed.

“It’s not funny!” Nigel said impatiently, handing her the books. “I gotta go.”

“Look, Nigel,” she said. “I’m really sorry that it didn’t…you know, that it didn’t work out between us. It’s just that you’re only here on Saturdays and, well, Harry’s here all the time and…it just happened, that’s all.”

“You don’t have to explain,” Nigel said.

Ginny kissed him on the cheek. “And I don’t think you’re gay. People are just taking the mickey out of you. Just forget about it.”

But that was easier said than done.


	19. A Field Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Well, I’ve brought him,” McGonagall said. She indicated for Nigel to sit at the head of the table, whilst all eyes remained fixed on him. “Nigel Chaucer, this is Molly and Arthur Weasley…”_
> 
> _“Oh yes, I met your sons today,” Nigel said. “They’re the ones responsible for my, uh, transformation.”_
> 
> _“Lovely to meet you, dear,” Molly said, smiling tenderly at him._
> 
> _“And this is Kingsley Shacklebolt, Alestor Moody, Nymphadora Tonks, and Remus Lupin.”_
> 
> _Nigel shook hands with them, discomfited by the looks of admiration and curiosity on their faces. He suddenly felt like a prized turkey at a harvest festival._

The following week, Nigel returned to Hogwarts, determined to put his humiliation behind him. To his great relief, when he walked on the grounds, Draco Malfoy was nowhere to be found, once again. Nigel hoped that the impending murder hadn’t yet taken place, and he wished that he could do something to stop it. Still, he couldn’t stop worrying about his friend. He had seen the anguish in Draco’s face, and knew the brutality the Dark Lord was capable of. It was a nearly impossible situation, with no real victory that Nigel could perceive. If Snape knew about it, then, Nigel thought, Snape was Draco’s only hope of survival. It had to be.

“I’m sorry, Chaucer, but I really can’t tell you anything,” Snape said as they cleaned up their potions lesson. Nigel had just made Veritaserum so superbly that Snape was nearly speechless with awe.

Nigel picked up one of the glass phials of Veritaserum he had just filled and waggled it. “How about a little drink, sir?” he joked.

“Very funny. I know you’re worried about him. So am I.”

“You’re the only one who can help him. You have to. He can’t do this. It will destroy him!”

“Either way, he’s destroyed.”

“That can’t be! There has to be a way! We just have to be clever about it, use our imagination and ingenuity! The Dark Lord can’t control everything.”

“No, but he can damn sure try.” Snape lined the bottles carefully in a small chest, locked it tight and stored it away in a locked drawer in the back of the Potions storeroom.

“Does Slughorn know about that drawer?” Nigel asked.

“Professor Slughorn. And no, he doesn’t. I keep the good stuff in here.”

Nigel threw him a wry look. “Sir, why would the Dark Lord want to kill Draco’s family?”

Snape shook his head. “It’s a very long story, Chaucer. It involves things that even I don’t know about, to be honest. The Dark Lord has a very contentious history with Lucius Malfoy, I’m afraid, and Draco is unfortunate enough to have to pay the price. Personally, I believe the Dark Lord resents Lucius.”

“Why? The Dark Lord has everything, doesn’t he?”

Snape shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Nigel, this is becoming a very dangerous conversation.”

Back in Snape’s office, they drank tea and munched on apple slices. Snape looked relaxed, calm, almost meditative. Nigel sensed trouble. His cousin was too quiet, too placid in light of what he knew was about to happen to someone at Hogwarts.

“Professor, I need to tell you something. My exams for school are coming up soon, so after May is over, I won’t be able to come here for a few weeks. Once I’m done with exams, I can come right back, I guess whenever your holiday is over.”

Snape didn’t respond right away. He took a drink of his tea, ate a slice of apple and twiddled his thumbs for a quick moment. “What are you doing next Friday after school?”

“Probably going out with my friends. I’m trying to get a date with Lucy Fairchild.”

“Perhaps Lucy Fairchild can wait for you one more week?”

“Sir?”

“Time is short, Nigel, and there is much for you to do. I am still convinced that you must attend Hogwarts full-time next term…”

Before Nigel could retort in protest, Snape shushed him with a single moment of his hand.

“…You have a crucial role to play in the wizarding world, Nigel. Invaluable. You must see that.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’m just a kid.” Nigel tried to laugh off the suggestion.

“Potter is just a student, too, yet he also will play a crucial role, as I am sure you know.”

“Well yeah, but he has to kill the Dark Lord. He’s the only one who can!”

“Just so,” Snape said, a little bitterly. “You’re too new to all this to see your role, yet it is very clear to me that you have one. Your powers are simply too strong to suggest otherwise.”

“I thought it was all about character, sir, not powers. That’s what Dumbledore always says.”

“Professor Dumbledore. That this war will be over in the near future, and when it is, the wizarding world will need to be rebuilt, not so much in a physical way but socially, emotionally, even spiritually. That’s where a powerful force like you comes in.”

“I’m not that spiritual, I mean, I go to church services, but…”

Snape shook his head in exasperation. “Nigel, you have to see yourself as others do. You are kind, generous, a man of action. You reach out to others willingly, wanting to bring about the very best in them. I see that in your dealings with Mr. Malfoy. And you know pain, very well. That is essential.”

“Why?”

“It’s the secret to your compassion.”

All this talk was very upsetting to Nigel. He had never heard his cousin speak like this before, so intimately and passionately. Yet Snape seemed absolutely convinced, and Nigel soon found that there was no dissuading him.

“On Friday afternoon, I would like you to come to London to meet a few important people.”

“I’ll have to ask my parents, but I don’t think they’ll object.”

That week at school, Nigel paid extra attention to Lucy Fairchild. She was blonde, vivacious, petite and very clever. Lucy was one of those girls who seemed to excel at just about everything, from maths to literature to football. Plus, she was very popular, constantly surrounded by friends and potential suitors. Before his accident, Nigel had never hoped ever to get a date with Lucy, but in recent weeks, feeling confident in his powers and desperate to prove his manhood, he finally gathered up the courage to ask her on a date. When she said yes, he nearly fainted—internally anyway.

Putting her off a week seemed unreasonable to Nigel, especially since he couldn’t tell her why. He had to muster up the excuse of a relapse of his ill health, and fortunately, she believed him. So they were set for the following week, leaving Friday free for Nigel to travel to London with Snape.

Only he wouldn’t be traveling with his cousin, which disappointed Nigel. Rather, Professor McGonagall escorted Nigel to London, merely saying that it was better this way. Snape had warned Nigel within an inch of his life not to let on to McGonagall that he could apparate, and so he pretended to let McGonagall apparate side-by-side with him.

First stop: Diagon Alley. Nigel had heard about it from all his friends, but until now had never gotten a chance to visit there. He was dying to see the place and explore all the strange and wonderful shops. He was especially interested in Flourish and Blott’s and in the apothecary shop. Every inch of the street was fascinating to Nigel’s wide eyes, from the Quidditch shop to the Owl Emporium to the well-stocked Potions supply store. Everything smelled different to Nigel—the light was different, too.

Despite the fantastical atmosphere of the place, there was a certain sense of darkness, too. Apparent on every corner and in every window was a sense of caution, warnings of potential disaster and destruction at every turn. Large posters cautioned witches and wizards about Inferi and Death Eaters and other dark dangers. It gave Nigel pause, especially in light of what he knew Draco Malfoy had to do in the Dark Lord’s service. He felt a pang of grief and near helplessness just then, only alleviated by a new distraction.

A joke shop, called Weasley’s Wizard’s Wheezes, lay just ahead.

“I thought you might like to come here,” McGonagall said brightly, slyly.

Inside, the shop was packed from floor to ceiling with the brightest, loudest, most fascinating objects Nigel had ever seen. But what was more interesting were the identical, ginger-haired proprietors, dressed in flashy dragon-hide suits.

“Professor McGonagall!” one of them said. “What brings you here? And with a student no less!”

“A Slytherin student!” the other twin added, eyeing Nigel’s robes.

“We might have to triple our prices today,” first twin quipped, elbowing his brother in the ribs.

“I believe you have already met Nigel Chaucer,” she said proudly. “Your blood has, anyway.”

The mutual recognition moved all three of them to break into joyful, tearful smiles.

“You’re the ones?” Nigel said. Ecstatic, he rushed to them and embraced them both. “You guys saved my life! Thank you!”

“Our pleasure, Nigel,” Fred said, moved by emotion and astonishment.

“We heard we turned you into a wizard!” said George.

“Well yeah, sort of,” Nigel said.

“Too bad we turned him into a Slytherin, George,” Fred joked.

“Well, no one’s perfect, Fred,” George replied with a laugh.

It was all too unbelievable to Nigel. He had never felt so good as he did, meeting his saviours face to face. There was so much Nigel wanted to say, and yet he was at a loss for words After several minutes of excited conversation and many promises of visiting and keeping in touch, McGonagall brought the visit to a close, telling Nigel that they had many other stops to make.

“That was amazing,” Nigel said as they continued down the street.

Their next stop was Gringott’s bank, where Nigel exchanged the ten pounds he brought with him to wizard gold. Then it was off to Flourish and Blott’s, where McGonagall introduced him to the entire staff, and then to the Potions store, where she did the same—before they left, Nigel brought a few ingredients that he thought might interest Snape. Again, at Eeylops Owl Emporium, she introduced Nigel to the staff, and likewise at the Leaky Cauldron, where they stopped for tea. At all these places, she was very careful to introduce him as “Nigel Chaucer, the boy who became a wizard.” And to Nigel’s shock, everyone they met already had heard of him.

“Of course they’ve heard of you!” she said. “You’re as famous as Harry Potter! Perhaps more so! No one in history has ever become a wizard, so quite naturally, you are an object of great speculation and gossip.”

“What sort of speculation?” Nigel asked. He hated it when people intruded on his privacy.

“Well, about your accident, about the blood transfusion, certainly about your family.”

“Do they know about Severus…that is, Professor Snape?”

McGonagall shook her head. “No, not that I’ve heard. But people do seem to have heard about your abilities, and they know a little about your leadership.”

“My leadership?” That made Nigel laugh.

“When a Slytherin is friendly with people from all houses, that causes heads to turn. You’re not exactly the typical Slytherin, Chaucer, nor are you the typical wizard.”

“I had no idea about any of this. I guess I’ve been so busy just learning all this stuff.”

“Well from everything I hear and read, including some of the teachers and the older students at school, people see you someone touched by something special and mysterious. They want to know more about you.”

Nigel blushed. “I guess that’s better than being touched in the head.” He laughed at his own joke, but McGonagall didn’t. Instead, she gave him a rather stern look.

“Don’t be shocked if they don’t look to you when all this is over.”

Nigel scowled. “You sound like Professor Snape.”

“He’s quite right. He is very proud of what you have accomplished this year. I hope you know that. I know he can be a little difficult, but he is really quite attached to you. I see it in the way he talks about you, in the tone of his voice, even in the look on his face.”

Their next stop was the offices of _The Daily Prophet_ , where Nigel sat down with three reporters and two photographers and gave a lengthy interview on his background, his accident, his magical transformation, and even on his political views regarding the Minister of Magic and the Dark Lord. They asked him about Dumbledore, about Harry Potter, and also about his Slytherin connections. Nigel handled all these questions discreetly, with humour and diffidence, which pleased the reporters all the more.

“You did well, Mr. Chaucer,” McGonagall said to him as they made their way out. She led him to an alleyway near the Prophet and pulled him inside. “We have one more important place to go, but it’s not around here.”

“Where is it?”

“I can’t tell you that. I can only take you there. Take hold of my arm.”

Together, they apparated into another dark alleyway, far away from the activity and noise of Diagon Alley. They left the alley, walked to the corner, turned right onto the next street and headed straight ahead, stopping in front of an uninteresting brick house.

“Come, Mr. Chaucer,” she said, leading him up the front walk. She tapped the lock with her wand, and the door opened slowly. Leading him inside, they took off their cloaks and hung them on the coat rack by the door.

“Is that you, Minerva?” a female voice called out.

“Come on,” she said to Nigel, leading him down a narrow corridor, past moving wizarding photographs of people Nigel didn’t know, and into a bright, warm kitchen. Seated around the kitchen table were a ginger-haired couple, an elegant, bald black man, a man with a horribly scarred face and a weird glass eye, a woman with bright blue braids, a slender man in a shabby jacket, and…Professor Snape.

“Well, I’ve brought him,” McGonagall said. She indicated for Nigel to sit at the head of the table, whilst all eyes remained fixed on him. “Nigel Chaucer, this is Molly and Arthur Weasley…”

“Oh yes, I met your sons today,” Nigel said. “They’re the ones responsible for my, uh, transformation.”

“Lovely to meet you, dear,” Molly said, smiling tenderly at him.

“And this is Kingsley Shacklebolt, Alestor Moody, Nymphadora Tonks, and Remus Lupin.”

Nigel shook hands with them, discomfited by the looks of admiration and curiosity on their faces. He suddenly felt like a prized turkey at a harvest festival.

“We are part of a larger network of witches and wizards called the Order of the Phoenix,” Shacklebolt began. “We are organised specifically to work against You-Know-Who. We have operatives in all areas of the wizarding world, including the Ministry, at Hogwarts, even within the ranks of You-Know-Who himself.”

This all sounded very cloak-and-dagger, very clandestine to Nigel. “What do you want from me?” he asked.

“In the wizarding world, Hogwarts has always held a special prominence,” Arthur said. “Safeguarding Hogwarts means safeguarding our very future. It has always been paramount to protect the students and the learning process at Hogwarts, no matter what. That, we are afraid, may very well be jeopardised in the next few weeks.”

Nigel looked at Snape, knowing exactly what Shaklebolt meant.

“I believe Professor Snape asked you to attend Hogwarts next term as a full time student, Nigel,” Arthur continued.

“I’ve already told him that I…”

“You simply must, Nigel,” Shaklebolt said, looking directly into Nigel’s troubled eyes. “The future of the school rests on your presence there.”

Nigel gulped.


	20. Nigel's Last Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _That Saturday marked Nigel’s last day at Hogwarts, for the time being anyway. He felt a little sad, a little wistful, a little scared as he made his way for the last time down the long path toward the great castle. Nigel still didn’t understand what his role at the school would be. Didn’t it have a Headmaster to rally the students and keep them safe? Didn’t it have a staff of caring teachers? Why would they suddenly rely on a seventh year student for stability? It didn’t make much sense, but then again, Nigel had learned to abandon his prejudices and take them on faith. Could it be that Snape was right even in this? All those other wizards and witches seemed to hold the same opinion, and they were important and wise people indeed._

It was the best date of his life—so far, anyway. Lucy was sweet, attentive, funny and intellectual. She had a magnetic charm about her which always drew people to her. Nigel found himself working hard to keep up with her mind, with the rapid-fire speed of her discourse. The date was simple. Just dinner at a nice restaurant in town, a little Italian place called Romano’s Trattoria, where they ate pasta and garlic bread and talked for hours. And then, Lucy said something shocking.

“My Aunt Clementine knows all about you,” she said.

“What on earth do you mean?”

“She said you’re the saviour of Hogwarts!”

Nigel dropped his fork with a loud clatter. “How…do you know…”

“She’s a witch,” she said. “Went to Hogwarts back in the 70’s. She knew Harry Potter’s father, though I think they were in different houses.”

“You’re joking! Did she know someone called Severus Snape? He was in Slytherin, like me.”

“Probably. Big nose? Sort of greasy hair?”

Nigel nodded. “That’s Severus.”

“I think he was sort of a weirdo at school, at least according to my auntie. No one liked him much. How do you know him?”

“He’s my tutor.”

Lucy blushed. “Oh. Sorry. Is he nice?”

“Not really. Bloody brilliant, though. He’s hard to describe, really. I’ve learned loads from him.”

“I wish I were a witch,” Lucy said wistfully. “There’s so much that my auntie can’t tell me. All sorts of rules about secrecy, or so she says.”

“She’s right.”

Lucy leaned forward and kissed Nigel on the lips. The kiss was soft, gentle, warm, beautiful. Nigel pulled her closer and returned her kiss. They stayed like that for a while, kissing softly and not talking any more. They kissed again as they stood on her doorstep, and that Monday at school, and Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, before school, during break during lunch, after classes, behind the cricket pitch, in a back booth at McDougal’s, everywhere…

Nigel was in love, with a muggle that knew all about his new world. He could be open with her, talk to her in terms he knew she would at least partly understand, even if he couldn’t tell her absolutely everything. Nigel wished he could show her Hogwarts, but of course that was impossible. Things couldn’t have been better than they were just then, but always, in the back of his mind, he knew that he had to make a choice. Draco’s words had stayed with him, that he wasn’t a muggle any more, that he had to embrace his new identity fully. Nigel wondered if he could. He worried that if he chose the magical world, he would have to leave Lucy and her kiss far behind. He pined just a little.

That Saturday marked Nigel’s last day at Hogwarts, for the time being anyway. He felt a little sad, a little wistful, a little scared as he made his way for the last time down the long path toward the great castle. Nigel still didn’t understand what his role at the school would be. Didn’t it have a Headmaster to rally the students and keep them safe? Didn’t it have a staff of caring teachers? Why would they suddenly rely on a seventh year student for stability? It didn’t make much sense, but then again, Nigel had learned to abandon his prejudices and take them on faith. Could it be that Snape was right even in this? All those other wizards and witches seemed to hold the same opinion, and they were important and wise people indeed.

“Have you decided?” Snape asked him as they sat for the last time in his office, before their lesson began.

Nigel sighed. “I think so, sir. I don’t really see the immediate logic of the scheme, but I’m starting to think that I need to trust you a little more.”

“I know you’re giving up a very bright future as a physician…”

“I can still do that, sir. It may have to wait a while, but that’s okay. I might even look into a career as a Healer.” Nigel smiled.

And then Snape did the completely unexpected. He swept Nigel up into a tight embrace, and held him close for a full minute. Nigel noted more than a hint of farewell in the embrace, a beginning and an ending of sorts, feeling a sudden void in his heart, as if he would never see Snape again.

“I have so much to say to you, sir, so much to thank you for,” Nigel said, his voice heavy with emotion.

But Snape stopped him. “You don’t have to…”

“I want to, sir.”

“Severus.”

Nigel laughed. “Severus. Why do I get the feeling that I’m not going to see you for a while?”

Snape straightened his shoulders. “Never mind that. I am relieved to know that you will be here, regardless of anything else.”

Nigel looked at his cousin carefully. Snape looked so tired just then, so haggard and drawn, paler than usual, his eyes drooping a little. He seemed tense, apprehensive, as if he were entering into something unpleasant yet unavoidable. Nigel knew a little of how he felt.

“I hear you met some good people last week in Diagon Alley. Professor McGonagall told me so, and I was pleased with the articles about you in the _Daily Prophet_.”

“They seemed a bit random to me. I was glad to meet Fred and George Weasley, though. Their shop is brilliant!”

“I want you to promise me that over the summer, you’ll visit those people frequently and get to know them. You need to gain their trust and even their allegiance.”

“Their allegiance?” Nigel exclaimed. “That’s ridiculous!”

Snape glared at him for a moment. “Don’t let false humility blind you, Nigel. This is no time for that.”

“It’s not false humility, Severus.”

“Alright. Then it’s just ignorance.”

Nigel scowled. “Then enlighten me, since I’m such a thickhead.”

A little irritated, Snape rolled his eyes. “You met sellers of owls, spell books, the apothecary, the media, the bloody Order of the Phoenix. Doesn’t that mean something to you, Chaucer?”

Nigel pondered a moment. And then he knew. “If I ever need something important…” he began.

Snape nodded. “Exactly. You will find these individuals to be invaluable resources to you in these coming months. And you will need them, at least if I have anything to say about it.”

Seamlessly, Snape moved on to today’s business at hand. Today’s lesson would focus on placing protective charms on rooms or objects, large and small.

Snape held up a teacup. “If I place a certain charm on this cup, you will not be able to vanish it, transfigure it or possibly even touch it.” He placed the cup on the table and slashed his wand down sharply three times so that a purple light surrounded the cup for a moment. “Try to vanish it.”

Nigel set his wand down for a moment and shut his eyes, trying to conjure up his very best vanishing spell. He pointed his wand at the cup and ran the incantation through his mind. The cup wiggled for a moment, but nothing else happened.

After a couple of hours of exhausting spell-casting, Nigel had finally gotten the incantation right. Getting the wand movement down took another couple of hours, but by lunchtime, Nigel had placed protective charms on a teacup, a chair, a bookshelf and a cabinet.

“So if someone were to hide in the cabinet, he or she couldn’t be harmed in any way?” Nigel asked.

“Precisely,” Snape said.

They broke for lunch. Snape disappeared to the Teachers’ Lounge or his office or somewhere, whilst Nigel headed for the Great Hall to join the Slytherins. The table was rather quiet that afternoon, and Draco Malfoy was once again nowhere to be found. Pansy picked glumly at her food, Vince shoveled mouthful after noisy, slurping mouthful, and Greg seemed to inhale his food without a word. Nigel wondered if they knew something but were unwilling or unable to say anything. Then again, it could just be that the thick-headed Slytherins were being their usual ridiculous selves.

Nigel spotted Ginny and Harry across the tables. He waved furtively. They waved back. Nigel excused himself to go and say hi. To his amazement, nobody said a word, nor even cracked a joke. Nigel told his Gryffindor friends about his upcoming exams at school—Ginny had hers as well—and about Lucy and their perfect date.

“It was weird, though. I thought it was forbidden for muggles to know about the magical world,” Nigel said.

“Some have to know,” explained Harry, “if their children or siblings are witches or wizards. Like my aunt and uncle and cousin. And the only reason they know about it is because of my mum and then me. To tell you the truth, they’d rather not know a thing. They even pretend that the magical world doesn’t exist!”

“I hope you didn’t say too much to Lucy,” Hermione said warily. “Even I don’t tell my parents everything. I don’t think it’s such a good idea.”

“I was careful. Say, have you seen Malfoy anywhere? No one in my house has any idea where he is.” Nigel chided himself for his lack of delicacy.

“No,” Harry said, standing up. “And that reminds me. I’ve got to go. Appointment with Dumbledore. See you, Nige.”

That afternoon, Nigel and Snape just talked. No more spells or charms. Just a long lecture about leadership, cool-headedness and diplomacy. “Remember what I said to you months ago, Nigel. A Slytherin recognises human weakness and knows how to transform it into strength. That involves brutal honesty with self and with others. Recognising that will make you into a remarkable and effective leader, especially coupled with your extraordinary powers.”

“Will I ever see you again, Severus?” Nigel asked.

Snape didn’t respond. “My own future is uncertain. I may be dead within a few days, or I may need to disappear for a while.”

“Dead?” Nigel exclaimed, horrified. “What do you mean?”

“You will likely hear many terrible things about me,” Snape continued, ignoring Nigel’s outburst. “But don’t let nasty innuendo or rumours distress you too much. In fact, I think it best not to respond whatsoever, as I am not at liberty to disclose the entire situation to you.”

All the way home, Nigel felt so black in his heart that he his legs barely supported his weight. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen soon, too soon. And there was nothing Nigel could do to stop it. Snape had been most adamant that Nigel stay far away from Hogwarts for quite some time, no matter what he may see or hear. That was easier said than done. Something was going down at Hogwarts, and the feeling of helplessness ate away at Nigel, distracting him from his end of term studies.

One balmy June night, as Nigel revised for his upcoming exams, he saw something strange in the sky. It was a series of lights, a skull with a serpent…it was that same symbol that Draco had tattooed on his arm—the Dark Mark of Lord Voldemort. Up there in the sky, it glittered green and ominous, reeking death and destruction, mocking everyone who looked upon it. Nigel was too far away to hear anything, but he could tell that something terrible had happened. He felt a rush of terror in his whole body, yet he did not rise from his chair. Instead, Nigel uttered a frantic prayer: “Lord God, keep him safe. Lord God, keep him safe. Lord God, keep him safe.”

* * * * *

July 31, 1997. Nigel’s 17th birthday.

He woke up early that morning, stretched like a cat, grunted, scratched his belly and lay there, still undecided about whether to get up. He didn’t want to much. It was so warm and cozy under the blankets, the room was just the right temperature, and the sunshine flooded his room at just the right angle. The perfect birthday morning. Aunt Susan and Uncle Kit would be coming for dinner, as were Tony, Lucy and her family, Jimmy, Clive, Robert and his sister, and a few other friends. No one from Hogwarts, though. He hadn’t invited them.

In fact, after the drastic and horrible events of June, Nigel hadn’t seen anyone from Hogwarts, except occasionally Professor McGonagall—Headmistress McGonagall, that is. She told him the whole story, about the invasion of the Death Eaters, about the tragic murder of Professor Dumbledore, about the narrow escape of Severus Snape and Draco Malfoy, about the attack on Bill Weasley by a violent werewolf called Fenrir Greyback, about the grief and confusion and anger of everyone at school. No one could understand why this had to happen, why a professor would murder the Headmaster, why a student would bring such violence to their Hogwarts community, how a castle supposedly impenetrable could be overrun like that. There was talk about what Harry Potter would do now, what would happen if Snape and Malfoy were found, whether Malfoy’s father would escape from Azkaban, whether anyone would ever know peace and tranquility ever again. Despair seemed to rule the wizarding world.

The story hit Nigel particularly hard. He had grown to love his cousin deeply, even to halfway tolerate Draco—he even dared go so far as to consider Malfoy a friend. How could they do this? How could Malfoy bring himself to take part in such a horrible act, regardless of whatever threats he faced? None of it made much sense. All Nigel had left was Snape’s words of caution about rumour and innuendo. But it was hard not to form an opinion in the midst of such speculation. He could see why Snape had kept him in the dark about this, but now he wondered about so many things. Nigel suspected that none of his questions would be answered any time soon, and certainly not by McGonagall, who seemed just as flummoxed as everyone else. He’d just have to wait and to pray.

So on the morning of his 17th birthday, Nigel decided to set aside his troubling questions and just enjoy the day. Nigel’s friends were taking him to the cinema later that afternoon, and after that, there would be a huge party back at Nigel’s house. Lucy promised him a unique and special birthday present. Mr. Chaucer promised Nigel that they would discuss the possibility of a car—not a new one, of course, but something Nigel could drive to Hogwarts and around town. Nigel thought about driving it to Hogsmeade with Lucy. She’d like that, he thought. He would buy her sweets at Honeydukes, and get her to try a butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks.

All his happy thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of an owl, with a letter in its beak. Mrs. Chaucer let the owl in and took the letter. She handed it to Nigel. The owl waited patiently as Nigel read the letter. It was a letter of acceptance to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, informing him that he was to report to the school on September 1. Inside the letter were two more notes, the first being a list of books and supplies and robes that Nigel would have to purchase at Diagon Alley beforehand. The second was even more curious. It was a letter congratulating him. A badge slipped out of the envelope.

He had been appointed Head Boy.


	21. Epilogue: Head Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Head Boy. He couldn’t believe it. Head Boy? Why? He was just a weekend student, a part-timer, a brand new wizard. Why would they give such an important post to someone like Nigel? It must have been on Snape’s recommendation. It had to be. Then again, his cousin was in disgrace. How could they trust his opinions, considering his murderous actions back in June? Nigel had to know the answer to this. He wanted to be sure it wasn’t some sort of joke or prank._
> 
> _“Why would we play such a silly joke on you, Chaucer?” McGonagall asked him._

Head Boy. He couldn’t believe it. Head Boy? Why? He was just a weekend student, a part-timer, a brand new wizard. Why would they give such an important post to someone like Nigel? It must have been on Snape’s recommendation. It had to be. Then again, his cousin was in disgrace. How could they trust his opinions, considering his murderous actions back in June? Nigel had to know the answer to this. He wanted to be sure it wasn’t some sort of joke or prank.

“Why would we play such a silly joke on you, Chaucer?” McGonagall asked him.

They sat at a corner table at the Three Broomsticks that early August afternoon, she sipping tea, he drinking butterbeer and sharing a Cauldron Cake with her. Nigel had run into Professor McGonagall by chance that day coming out of Honeydukes, where he had just bought a huge bag of sweets for Lucy. Nigel decided to take advantage of the situation, inviting her to an afternoon drink.

“I just thought it seemed kind of odd, that’s all. You all barely know me, really, at least not like the other students. Why not appoint Weasley or McMillan, even Zacharias Smith?”

“You are uniquely qualified for the post, Mr. Chaucer. Professor Snape was quite adamant about your strong character, and in spite of what he did, I am inclined to trust him on this.”

“Have you heard from him?” Nigel asked hopefully.

“No. Not a word, naturally.”

“I’m worried about him. About both of them.”

“So am I.”

“It’s too much. It’s too horrible,” Nigel lamented.

“I know.”

Nigel paused unsure whether to ask. “Why do you think he did it, ma’am?”

“That is something only your cousin can answer, I’m afraid.”

Nigel raised his eyebrows. “He told you that…”

McGonagall nodded. “You’re the only family he has left. Whatever he may or may not be, he adores you.”

Nigel felt unsure how to take that, so he decided to change the subject. “So, who is Head Girl?”

“I’m sure you can figure that one out.”

“Granger?”

“Miss Granger, yes.”

Nigel’s heart lightened hearing that. He had always liked Hermione and knew that they would make a great team. In a way, her sharp wits and keen insights reminded him of Lucy, though he wasn’t drawn to Hermione in the way he was to Lucy. Lucy had a sweetness to her that he just didn’t see in Hermione, as nice as she was to him. Then again, he thought, perhaps he didn’t see it because he only saw her on weekends. Now, as Head Boy and Girl, they would have to work intimately every day of the week. He looked forward to it with great enthusiasm.

Therefore, when he ran into Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley two weeks later at Diagon Alley, he couldn’t understand her attitude. Well, he could, but he really couldn’t. She approached him with a sneer on her face reminiscent of Draco Malfoy in his very worst moments, with Weasley there at her heels like a puppy dog, backing her up. Nigel smiled and waved.

“Hey there, you two!” he said eagerly as they approached. “How’s the summer been?”

“How dare you show your face around here!” Hermione hissed at him.

Nigel was taken aback. “Excuse me? What are you talking about?”

“You know damn well what I’m talking about.”

“I’m sorry, but I really don’t. I’m a bit thick sometimes, so you’re going to have to explain it to me.”

“How did you do it, Chaucer?” she asked in a huffy tone. “How did you trick them into making you Head Boy? It looks like your Slytherin mentor taught you well.”

Nigel glared at her, his resentment growing. This was unbelievable to him. “What do you think, that I put the Imperius Curse on everyone?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me,” Ron said, echoing Hermione’s sentiment.

“I didn’t even know about it until I got the letter two weeks ago!”

“Yeah, right,” Ron grumbled.

“I didn’t! I was just as shocked as anyone else when I found out! I didn’t ask to be appointed, whatever you two may think!” Nigel softened his tone. “Come on, Hermione, we’ve got to work together this year. We have to be able to get along, to trust each other.”

“How can I trust you?” she sniped. “You’re a Slytherin, you’re the student of a murderer and the friend of a treacherous bully!”

“You’re upset because Ron here didn’t get the post, right?” Nigel said with disgust. “Look, mate, I’m sorry they didn’t choose you, but…”

“Mate? Don’t you call me mate, Chaucer,” Ron snapped. “You’re no mate of mine!”

“I have already registered my complaint with the Headmistress,” Hermione said plainly. “I will not work with the likes of you, considering the company of criminals you keep.”

“You surprise me, Hermione,” Nigel said. “I always admired you because you were fair-minded and reasonable, but I’m seeing a very ugly side to you right now. I don’t think that Godric Gryffindor would approve of your biased attitude.”

“Don’t you DARE tell me about Godric Gryffindor!” she snapped at him. “What about Salazar Slytherin and his legacy of hatred?”

“Don’t you compare me to Salazar Slytherin!” Nigel snapped back. “I may be in Slytherin House, but that doesn’t automatically make me a bigot! I thought you of all people would understand that, Hermione!”

“Because I’m muggle-born?”

“Because you believe in justice, even for the worst offenders. At least that’s what Harry always said about you. Professor Snape said that about you, too.”

“Don’t you dare mention that snake’s name…”

Nigel reached out and touched her gently on the shoulder. She flinched away from him.

“I’ll see you at school,” Nigel said. And with that, he turned and walked away from both of them.

* * * * *

Sunday, August 31, 1997. Nigel and Lucy sat on their favourite park bench, deeply engrossed in a passionate good-bye kiss. He would still be able to see her, but only on Hogsmeade weekends. They both made promises to write often. She knew all about owl posts, so he didn’t have to explain that to her. Lucy frequently used owl post to communicate with her Aunt Clementine, who lived in Salisbury, far away from St. Luke. She promised to send him notes and photos and mementos. He promised to do the same. The hour grew late, but neither wanted to part. They were so caught up in each other just then, so entirely fused, so filled with passion and heat.

“I love you,” he said. They kissed for what they both knew would be the last time for a long while.

Nigel spent the next day packing his trunk, gathering his spellbooks, potions supplies, and other school things together. He didn’t have to report to Hogwarts until 5:00 that evening, so he had plenty of time to get ready. His parents helped him, which Nigel appreciated. He knew he’d miss them terribly, but it was comforting to know they were just one town away—he wished they could see Hogwarts, have some visual idea of where he was. They would just have to be satisfied with his description. Nigel determined to purchase a wizard camera in Hogsmeade so that he could show his parents photographs of Hogwarts. He hoped they’d be able to see those.

Mrs. Chaucer was a little misty eyed that day as she folded his clothes and did a load of laundry for her son. Mr. Chaucer was a bit formal, a bit distant. This didn’t distress Nigel, however. He knew that his father had a little trouble conveying emotion. In fact, the more distant he was, the more pain he felt at parting from his son. Nigel felt the same way.

Nigel was afforded the unusual privilege of driving his car to Hogwarts. They even created a little parking place for him. Nigel hoped that high-spirited students wouldn’t jinx his car or charm it to fly or make it chase down the teachers. He hoped Hermione wouldn’t throw eggs at it or blow it up. Either way, it saved him the trouble of having to lug his heavy trunk all the way to school, since his parents couldn’t drive him there—how could they when they couldn’t see the place? As 5:00 rolled around, Mr. and Mrs. Chaucer helped Nigel load the car with all his things, slowly, ceremoniously, not really wanting to be finished but knowing that he had to go.

Once they were all packed and closed up, Nigel turned to face his parents for the last time, for a month, at least. He hugged them both tightly, asked them to pray for him, and then amid a flood of tears from his mother, Nigel got into the car and drove off to Hogwarts.

* * * * *

He would take Draco Malfoy’s place in the dorm. That vast princely space, the big, opulent bed, all of it was his. Draco had left behind all his things in the confusion of June’s events, but someone had cleared it all away during the summer, probably storing it away somewhere in the castle. It felt a little strange, ominous. Nigel could feel the pressure already. More than anything he wished he could talk to Draco and especially to Snape, to get answers to all his troubling questions. But that was out of the question.

Nigel was on his own in this new, daunting place, and he had no idea how he would get the other students to gain his trust. They knew what house he was, and who had taught him so closely all these months.

In the Great Hall that evening, things were hectic. Nigel and Hermione and all the Prefects did everything they could to quell the palpable tension among the students. There was so much anger, rage, almost a hysteria among the students. Most of the negative energy was leveled at the Slytherins, of course, a fact that didn’t surprise Nigel or Hermione or any of the teachers. Even the Hufflepuffs were taking part, chucking bits of food at the Slytherin table, hurling insults at them in concert with the Ravenclaws. To Nigel’s distress and disgust, it didn’t look as if the teachers were doing much to stop the abuse, and the moment that Ginny did the Bat Bogey Hex on a Slytherin Third Year, Nigel reached his limit.

He charged up to the dais, thrust his hands out over the student body, and in a flash of blue light which radiated in rotating, pulsating circles throughout the entire Hall, caused everyone to stop, without a word, nearly frozen. Nigel continued to hold out his hands, as if trying to keep back a flood.

“STOP THIS!” he roared commandingly. “STOP THIS AT ONCE!” He put his hands down, his eyes flashing with fury.

No one said a word, but sat in fear of what he might do next. No one had ever felt a spell like that, so paralyzing in its impact, almost smothering in its power.

Still furious, Nigel went on. “You all should be ASHAMED of yourselves! No one, not ONE single person in this room is guilty of ANY crime committed in June, and for you to behave in such a manner is a scandal to this great school, and to all our traditions! We are better than these stupid food fights and jinxes and verbal abuse! What happened in June was a horrible thing, but we have a duty to go on as best we can!” He put his hands down, releasing everyone from the spell.

At the Hufflepuff table, Ernie McMillan jumped up. “That’s easy for you to say, Chaucer! You’re Malfoy’s friend! You probably knew all about it! Maybe you even helped him!”

“Sit down, McMillan and shut up!” barked Hermione.

Hermione? Nigel goggled at her in utter shock.

“Nigel is right!” she shouted, “None of us here at Hogwarts has any reason to hex or jinx another person. We are not guilty of anything, but if we indulge in this behaviour, we lower ourselves and, as Nigel also said, bring scandal and disunity to our school!”

“Traitor!” Ernie shouted at Hermione.

Nigel flicked a finger at Ernie, causing a metal plate to form over Ernie’s mouth. Hannah Abbot gasped.

“NO one here is a traitor!” Nigel said vehemently. “I want to take this time to call upon ALL the teachers and Prefects to be particularly vigilant in quashing false accusations against ANY student. They, unlike many of you, understand that each student here is an individual, not a clone or a drone, regardless of which house they live in.” 

It suddenly hit him what he was doing and saying, making him feel very self-conscious as everyone stared at him eagerly, wondering at the power he possessed. 

Nigel sighed, exasperated and a little cowed. “Look, I may be overstepping my bounds here, but I stand ready with all the powers I possess to make sure that NO ONE this year gets away with any disparaging remark against anyone here at this school.”

Just then, Nigel jabbed an angry finger at the Hufflepuff table, causing all the goblets, and only the goblets, to fly upward sharply, then clash together in a noisy clatter and crash back down on the table. With another move of Nigel’s hand, the metal plate over Ernie’s mouth disappeared.

Later on, after the prefects had done their duty and gotten all the students into their respective houses, Nigel and Hermione had a chance to sit down for a brief respite in the Great Hall. Sitting at the Slytherin table, Nigel propped his tired feet up on the Gryffindor bench. Hermione propped hers on the Slytherin bench. They sipped their pumpkin juice and ate a cauldron cake.

“That was quite an evening, wasn’t it?” Nigel finally said, after a long silence.

Hermione stared straight ahead for a moment, lost in thought. “Yeah,” she said. “You were brilliant, though.”

“No I wasn’t. I was out of line, really. I just got so angry.”

“The way you stopped everyone was amazing. Did Snape teach you that?”

Nigel shook his head. “He taught me how to control my powers. The rest I made up myself.”

Hermione looked briefly impressed. “Then he didn’t teach you to dabble in the Dark Arts?”

Nigel looked offended. “He taught me to be entirely responsible for and in command of the powers that I have, both magical and otherwise.”

Hermione laughed. “You can drop the attitude, Nigel. I believe you.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that…”

“Don’t,” Hermione said. “I should apologise to you. What you said about unity is true, and I’m appalled that I didn’t see it before. I’m truly sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise,” Nigel said. “I know how much you loved Professor Dumbledore. I loved him, too. And I think Severus did, too. You have to believe that, Hermione, no matter what the evidence seems to say.”

Hermione sighed. “It’s going to be one hell of a year.”

“We’ll make it. You and I just have to stick together. It’s up to you, Hermione. I’m game if you are.”

She laughed. “Just keep those powers in check. And try not to freeze me during N.E.W.T’s, OK?”

Nigel smiled and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ve got it under control.”

 

**The End**

**Read the sequel to this story, “The Secret Passage” (15+)**


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